


Prophecy of an Abomination

by ashitanoyuki



Series: Prophecy of an Abomination [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Azazel (Supernatural)'s Special Children, Can people please not assault Sam anymore, Canon divergence begins in chapter 4, Canon divergent partway through season 2, Catholic Sam Winchester, Catholicism, Crucifixion, Dissociation, Eating Disorders, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Especially in later chapters, F/M, Follows certain episodes down to the dialogue, From the canon events in 1x16, Gen, Hurt Sam, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, I say as I write Sam!whump, Minor Character Death, Other, Powers Sam, Psychic Sam, Religious Sam Winchester, Sam Has Powers, Sam Has an Eating Disorder, Sam Whump, Sam is absolute crap about his mental health and should not be imitated, Sam is devoutly catholic, Sam-Centric, Season/Series 01, Season/Series 02, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Seriously sam gets hurt a lot, Sexual Assault, Torture, Vengeful Dean Winchester, Whump, Woman on man sexual assault, tags will be updated as i write more
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-21
Updated: 2017-09-02
Packaged: 2018-11-16 21:07:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 88,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11261013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashitanoyuki/pseuds/ashitanoyuki
Summary: Sam wants to be normal. Sometimes, it's harder than he'd like to keep faith in God.Or: a story of religious!Sam plus powers!Sam culminating in horrifying Sam whump (with eventual comfort to go with the hurt). A character study of the first two seasons that sharply diverges in season two.





	1. Pin

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write Catholic Sam. Man, I was raised Catholic, but I'm not even Catholic anymore, I am a proud pagan. Still, when I write Sam, he is Christian, and he seems to approve of Catholicism. Catholic Sam makes sense.
> 
> So, have this. Have hurt!Sam (I plan to hurt him terribly), Catholic!Sam, religious!Sam, etc,. This will follow canon until partway through season two, where it will diverge sharply in the name of hurting Sam.
> 
> Edit: I went to start chapter two, and promptly realized that I couldn't, because I had originally deemed Scarecrow too unimportant to have its own section, and it's... not. Meg's introduction is a bit crucial. So, I went back and wrote a section to add to this chapter. Sorry! I'll put a note about it in the author's note of the next chapter as well.

_~Stanford~_

It was only a building.

Sam took a deep breath and stared at the chapel before him, small and radiating tranquility. Stained glass windows seemed to glow in the light, beautiful works of art that no doubt cast colorful shadows across the pews within. The door was so close - only a few steps and he would be inside, in the church, in God's house.

Only a building.

Sam wiped the sweat from his hands on his jeans, took a few steps forward, and opened the door.

_~Five Hours Ago~_

It was a girl from his econ class who had recommended the church. He had seen her toying absently with the cross around her neck, shiny gold necklace chain sparkling against her dark skin, and words tumbled from his mouth before he thought the better of it.

"Hi, my name's Sam. Sorry if this is weird, but do you know any good churches in the area?"

The girl had looked at him through braided bangs, deep brown eyes wide and bright. "Depends,” she’d said, cocking her head, the beads at the ends of her braids clinking lightly. “Are you Catholic?"

"Yes." The words, the lie, had slipped out of his mouth. He could be, he supposed. He knew he had been baptized as an infant, but he didn't know the church, or the denomination, only that he had been a few months old, and his dad cried when Sam asked him about it.

"Cool," the girl had said, grinning. "I'm Michelle. I go to a chapel just off campus - Saint Gregory's? If you want, you can come to mass with me on Sunday."

_~Current Times~_

He had accepted - and it had nothing to do with Michelle's pretty smile, he told himself - but here he was, on a Thursday evening, checking it out ahead of time. Just in case - though in case of what, he could not say.

The chapel was mercifully empty. A few candles flickered on a table set before a small statue of the Holy Mary, and a large crucifix hung in the back behind the altar, but Sam's eyes were drawn to the little red candle at the back of the chapel. It was always lit - he remembered that, from asking questions after attending a Catholic mass with his friend Jordan's family when he was 12. A symbol of Christ always being there, or something.

Sam suddenly felt very small. He ducked his head and slunk towards a pew. He kicked out the kneeler and dropped to his knees, something strange roiling in his gut. Maybe he shouldn't be here, in God's house. He had killed, after all. Wasn't that a commandment? _Thou Shalt Not Kill?_ Did monsters count? Did they have souls?

Not for the first time, Sam wondered if he was going to Hell.

A loud creak interrupted Sam's thoughts, and he looked up. A tall, soft-looking man in a cassock walked into the church proper and knelt briefly before the altar, before looking directly at Sam. Brown eyes lined with crow's feet sparkled merrily as he held up a hand in greeting. Sam gulped, his throat dry, as the priest made his way towards him.

"Are you all right, young man?" the priest asked, his brow slightly creasing. "You're pale, and sweating."

He was sweating, Sam realized. "I'm fine, Father," he said, and his voice was so soft, it was nearly unrecognizable.

"Hm," the priest said. To Sam's mortification, the priest took a seat next to him. "I'm Father Ramirez. I don't think I've seen you here before. Are you a new college student?"

 _I think I'm a monster,_ Sam wanted to say. "Yeah, I'm a freshman at Stanford," he said instead.

Father Ramirez smiled. "Many of my parishioners are college students. Young people - it warms my heart, the passion and energy you bring to the church. Makes my old soul feel young again," he said, his lips curving up in a gentle smile

Sam couldn't lie to this man. "I wish I could be one of those people," he said. "But I'm not Catholic, Father."

Father Ramirez was silent for only a moment before chuckling. "Still, you're here, aren't you?" he asked. "In my experience, young man, people don't come to a church to pray unless they feel some sort of call to God."

He didn't need to spill his life's story to this man. He should just leave, run out of the chapel, and avoid Michelle for the rest of the semester. Instead, he found himself speaking. "My family - I grew up on the road, you see, and my dad and brother weren't really the church type. I mean, we had a family friend, Pastor Jim, but even then, Dad never bothered actually listening to his sermons or anything. I guess - even then, as a kid, I wanted something more, you know?" His face burned and Sam turned away, biting his lip. What the hell was that? _Shut up, you idiot._ As if some random priest was interested in hearing all that.

"Young man, what is your name?" Father Ramirez asked.

"Sam," he said quietly, unable to make himself turn around.

"It is admirable to find and hold faith when you are not raised with it, Sam" the priest said quietly. "I am always moved by men like yourself. I think you are in this church tonight for a reason, Sam, and if you let God in, he will help you find that reason." Cloth rustled, and Sam shifted a fraction. "You are welcome to come here any time - come to mass, to pray, or seek counsel."

Sam nodded, staring at his hands. "Thank you, Father," he said.

"I'll leave you to your prayer, then." The sound of footsteps over carpet faded, leaving Sam alone, and still, he felt a presence near him.

0o0o0o0o0

"Dude, I already told you, no. I have church tomorrow morning."

Brady groaned and threw his hands out with exasperation. "Sam, it's one Saturday-night party. One! You can skip church like once, or go in the evening, or something."

Sam frowned. He guessed could go to the Saturday evening mass, and he didn't like Brady going to parties alone after his - his problem. "Fine, I guess," he said.

"Great!" Brady flashed him a toothy grin. "'There's this girl I want to introduce you too, Jess. I really think you guys would hit it off."

Sam snorted. "You know I'm not looking for a relationship right now," he said. Not since things with Michelle had ended so disastrously over the summer. They avoided eye contact at church, neither one willing to speak to the other after their fight.

Brady nodded. "Just as friends, then," he said. "Although, she is just your type. Nerdy biology and arts dual major. Reads Shakespeare for fun."

"I've already said I'll go to the party," Sam said, fighting to keep his patience. "If I'm going to do Saturday night mass, though, I need to get going. Pick me up around six?" Brady's parties never seemed to take place on campus.

"Sure," Brady said with a smile. "I'll meet you in the parking lot."

0o0o0o0o0

Sam nearly swallowed his words about not wanting a relationship, because holy shit, Jess was _beautiful._ Golden hair and sparkling eyes, a beauty-mark between her brows that distinguished her from the other tall, thin blondes her age. Sam nearly swallowed his tongue just trying to talk to her; fortunately, he was still relatively sober, or he was sure he'd make a total ass out of himself.

"Biology's safe, don't get me wrong, and a part of me does want to go to med-school," Jess said, and took a tiny sip of beer, her eyebrows twitching as she struggled to not make a face. "But I just love painting, you know? Being an illustrator is the dream job, it just doesn't pay well."

Sam nodded. "Guess I'm lucky," he said clumsily. "I'm, ah, I'm pre-law. I've wanted to be a lawyer for a while, I guess. Help people, you know?"

Jess nodded, her lips curving in a smile. "So you're not in it for the money?" she asked lightly.

"Nah," Sam said, shaking his head. "Truth be told, I want to be a public defender. It doesn't pay that well, but not everyone who needs help has money, right?"

God, that smile. He could get used to that smile - it lit up the room. "I like the way you think, Sam Winchester," Jess said. "Wanna dance?" she asked, setting down her beer and gesturing towards the living room, where bad pop played loudly and several drunk people stumbled arythmically across the room.

He shouldn't accept. "Actually," Sam said, intending to turn her down, "why don't we get out of here, get coffee somewhere quieter?" Damnit! He'd only had a few beers - he should still be able to control his tongue!

Jess was silent for a moment, and worry flashed through Sam's head - she'd say no, she'd reject him; or she'd say yes, and then there would be no turning back.

"Coffee sounds good," Jess said finally, grinning. "Better than this gross shit," she added, gesturing to the PBR she'd been drinking.

Nervous laughter slipped from Sam's chest. "Good," he said, and he thought he meant it. "That's - that's good."

There weren't any coffee shops open so late at night, so Sam bought two gas station mochas and sat with Jess on the sidewalk curb. "Sorry this isn't fancy," he said.

"That's okay," Jess replied, nudging him playfully. "I'm a cheap date."

 _Date._ Sam shuddered at the implications, but the tingle that passed through him was far from unpleasant. Maybe it was too soon after his last relationship to date. But maybe, he thought, as Jess leaned against him, it was just the right time.

0o0o0o0o0

"You have a lot on your mind today, don't you, Sam?"

Father Ramirez sure was perceptive, Sam thought wryly. "Yeah, I guess I do," he said, ducking his head to hide his smile. "I'm... I'm thinking about proposing to Jess after graduation," he admitted, sneaking a glance at the old priest.

If anything, Father Ramirez looked delighted. "Sam, that's wonderful!" he said. "You really do love this girl, don't you?"

Sam nodded, his cheeks heating. "I just - I know it would be a secular ceremony," he said. After nearly four years, he felt he could tell Father Ramirez anything. "Because she's agnostic, and that's not something I'm worried about. Do you think God would be okay with that?"

Father Ramirez laughed, grey eyebrows crinkling. "Sam, our Father loves us all - and, as the definition of love itself, he loves love," the priest said. "Is it preferable to have a Catholic wedding? Certainly. But Sam, if you love this woman, you should marry her," he said, and patted Sam's arm. "God is just as present in a courtroom as he is in a church after all, isn't he?"

0o0o0o0o0

Sam never had time to put Father Ramirez's words to the test. Jess burned on the ceiling before he even proposed.

_~Aftermath~_

Traveling on the road with Dean was – it was okay, Sam thought. His older brother, who he hadn’t seen in four years. His older brother, who had raised him his whole childhood. His older brother, who hadn’t said a word to stop their dad when he threw Sam out for good.

Okay, so, maybe it wasn’t entirely okay.

“Chicks, booze, and beer, Sammy!” Dean crowed cheerfully, parking the Impala outside a seedy-looking bar on the outskirts of some no-name Nebraska town. “Come on, dude,” he said when Sam made no move to budge.

“Dean, I think I’m just going to go back to the motel and turn in,” Sam said, unbuckling his seatbelt and stepping out of the car. “It’s not that long a walk. You go on, have some fun.”

“Oh, no you don’t.” Sam grimaced as Dean’s hand came down firmly on his shoulder and pulled him back, but he stopped anyway. “Look, man, I get it. Your life has kind of – it’s sucked, these past couple weeks. So let’s get out there and blow off some steam! It’s Saturday night!”

Sam shook his head. “Yeah… I’m going back to the motel. You have fun, though. Please get another room if you decide to bring some girl back.”

Dean snorted. “Prude,” he teased. “All right, all right. You good to head out tomorrow morning?”

“Sure,” Sam said. “We can leave as soon as I get back.”

“Back?” Dean echoed, narrowing his eyes.

Sam sighed. “Yes, Dean,” he said, fighting to remain patient. “From church, remember?”

“Riiiiight. You do the church thing now,” Dean said, unimpressed. “Okay, holy roller, I won’t ditch you in town. Don’t wait up!”

“I won’t,” Sam said to Dean’s back, before turning on his heel and walking back in the direction of their shabby motel. Sam had made note of a church only a street or two down from the motel on their way into town, an advertisement for 9:00 Sunday mass spelled out in black letters on the yellowing sign. It was as good a place as any. He wondered how Father Ramirez was doing, and how things were back at Saint Gregory’s in Palo Alto.

Tension built in his temples as he walked, an unpleasantly familiar pressure. Sam grimaced and picked up his pace, rubbing at his head with one hand. He knew what this tension meant – nightmares. Like the nightmare he’d had about Jess, only less organized, less ominous. Less true, he hoped.

He made it back to the motel room and barely had the presence of mind to lock the door before collapsing into bed. He slept, and he dreamt an unsettling dream of a woman, a man whose face he never saw, and a knife.

_~Skin: Aftermath~_

Zach’s acquittal was bittersweet, knowing that it came at the cost of Becky being tortured and Dean – well, being accused of murder and declared dead. Sam rubbed absently at his throat, still tender even weeks later, and surreptitiously glanced at the row of people on either side of him. People who, like Sam, were here to confess their sins.

Finally, it was Sam’s turn. He made his way into the confessional and sat, his hands twisted absently at a cheap rosary – a rosary that Becky had given him when he was officially baptized in the Catholic Church. He swallowed hard and crossed himself. “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It has been months since my last confession.”

The priest’s voice was nasal, yet surprisingly gentle as he spoke a brief prayer. The pause when he finished lingered a second too long, and Sam took a deep breath before he began to confess.

Anger. Overuse of alcohol. Credit card scams, lying, missing church, lust for passing women in the small towns they frequented. Judgement.

Accomplice to murder. That shapeshifter – it had to die, he knew that. He hadn’t even been the one to pull the trigger. Still, the loss of life weighed on him, even knowing it was for the best.

That should have been the worst, Sam knew that. He could nearly feel the condemnation and judgement in the priest’s silence when he said that he had witnessed murder and done nothing to stop it. But that wasn’t the worst, no, not to him.

“I’ve – I’ve begun to resent God,” he said quietly. “My father is still missing. My girlfriend, the woman I wanted to marry, she’s still dead. I travel with my brother, doing terrible things because I, I have to, but I used to have a _future._ Why would God take that away from me?” He paused. Resentment of God. Surely one of the worst sins one could have. “I am sorry for these, and for all of my sins.” The words rolled off his tongue easily, automatically. He had, after all, attended confession at least once a month in Palo Alto.

“Son,” the priest said, his voice serious. “It is not for us to know God’s plan, only that he has one. Trust in Him, and He will lead you down the right path.” The priest paused for a moment. “If I may be blunt, the path you are currently on does not seem like the right one.”

Sam’s cheeks heated, and he ducked his head, his eyes oddly moist. “I understand.”

“Killing, my son – that is a mortal sin.” _Thou Shalt Not Kill._ “Allowing another to kill, and doing nothing, can scar the soul almost as deeply. For your penance, you will pray ten rosaries per day for the next month, and you shall abstain from taking communion for the next six months.”

It was a blow, but not an unexpected one. _Murderer._ Sam nodded, even knowing the priest could not see him.

“And son – I cannot force you to do this as penance, but I would recommend turning this murderer over to the police,” the priest said. “For your own sake, as well as those he killed.”

It wasn’t unexpected, even though Sam couldn’t do that. “I understand,” he said quietly, before launching into the Act of Contrition.

_~Home~_

_Headache, sleep – another dream._

_A woman, she was banging on the window, screaming. Long blonde hair, and what would be a pretty face if not contorted with fear, screaming, screaming, screaming. A twisted tree stood in front of the house, the closest thing Sam could find to a recognizable landmark, to a clue of where he was. Sam tried to run towards her, to get her out of that house, but he found himself unable to move, unable to look away. All he could do was watch –_

A horn blared, and Sam jerked awake, looking around wildly for a moment before recognizing his surroundings. He was in a motel room, with Dean. There was no woman, no window, no one in danger. Dean sat at a table with his laptop, still awake, Sam noticed in the back of his mind.

For some reason, it was the tree that stood out in his mind of all the details in the dream. Shaking slightly, he took a minute to think through the dream, through the details. He didn’t want to admit it, but these weren’t just dreams.

He’d dreamt of Jess burning for days before she died. If these were visions, not just dreams, maybe he could save the woman in the window from – whatever was terrifying her. A generic pad of motel paper sat on the bedside table, next to a listing of TV channels. Sam picked up the pad and began to draw, focusing his mediocre artistic ability into drawing the tree from his – his vision.

 _Jess would have laughed,_ he thought, looking at the paper. Almost immediately, he was swamped with longing. Sam’s inability to draw a stick figure had been a source of endless amusement for her, and no doubt she would have laughed herself silly over this tree. But she was gone, and she wasn’t going to laugh ever again, to tease him again, to –

No. He focused on the pad of paper, on his poor drawing of a tree. He couldn’t think about her right now. Not if he wanted to save this woman.

“Hey!” Sam glanced up, Dean’s exclamation cutting through his reverie. “Am I boring you with this hunting-evil stuff?”

Maybe. “No, I’m listening,” Sam said, looking back at his paper. “Keep going.” Some part of him listened as Dean continued to speculate about possible cases, but the majority of his attention was focused on the tree. Why was it so compelling?

The answer hit him like a lightning bolt. “Wait. I’ve seen this,” he said, derailing Dean’s point entirely.

“Seen what?” Dean asked, clearly irritated.

But Sam knew. Even as he dug through his father’s journal, searching for the picture, he knew. That tree, that he had seen only in pictures. That house, of which he had no memories.

A blonde woman, a stranger, screaming for help. “Dean, I know where we need to go next.”

Convincing Dean was less than pleasant. Sam had hoped it would never come to this, to discussing the – the nightmares, the visions – with Dean. And Dean, true to form, did not believe the danger. Did not believe Sam when he said that they needed to go home, to the house they were born. In retrospect, in the abstract, Sam could understand – Dean had memories of that house that he never would. Dean had sworn to never go back, a promise not easily broken.

 _Father, we need to go back. Please, help Dean to see this,_ Sam prayed, to a God who had never responded, but who was surely listening.

Dean agreeing to check out the house was a breath of fresh air, a relief, something that Sam could not lie about. So when Dean went to pull out an alias, Sam cut him off, told the woman - _you dreamed her screaming at the window -_ the truth. It felt right, somehow. It settled something in Sam, the idea that yes, they would save this woman.

Scratching. EMF. When they sought out Missouri Mosely for help with the house, a part of Sam was relieved. Maybe she could help him – and not just with the case. Maybe she could help him explain away the dreams.

And then they had to take down the poltergeist, and the time for questions was over. The first attempt didn’t work – he was sure of it. Something was wrong. Convincing Dean to stay took some effort – _“I could be sleeping in a bed right now.” –_ but they couldn’t just leave. Not until Sam was sure that the family would be okay.

And when Jenny appeared at the window, just as she had in his dream, Sam knew he had been right. “Dean. Dean!” he yelled, shaking his brother and running for the door.

Fire. As he ran to save the kids, he heard it crackling, but the sight of a human-shaped figure burning _– Jess, no! –_ gave him pause. Steeling himself, he edged into the room to lift the little girl from her bed. “Don’t look,” he told her, wishing more than anything that he could close his own eyes and block out the sight. “Don’t look.”

But he couldn’t just leave the spirit to wreak havoc. He set the kids down and turned to the girl, saying “Sari, take your brother outside as fast as you can, and don’t look back!”

 _“Take your brother outside as fast as you can and don’t look back! Now, Dean, go!”_ He knew those words only because teenage Dean had once gotten very drunk and told him the story of the fire. It was almost poetic, that he would return to the house he was carried from and give the same command to another child.

And then something caught his ankle and dragged him backwards, and even as he struggled, Sam knew – he just knew – that he was about to die. _Please, God, make it quick._

As if a poltergeist would show that kind of mercy.

The flaming figure emerged and walked slowly towards him, pinned as he was to the wall. Sam swallowed hard, his heart beating wildly as he stared at the figure. It didn’t feel like a threat. It felt… protective? Was that the right word?

As if waiting for the realization the figure past the flames became clear to him – right as Dean stormed into the room, screaming his name and raising his gun full of rock salt. “No, don’t!” Sam shouted, forcing the words out against the pressure shoving him backwards. “Don’t!”

“What? Why?” Dean demanded, his voice furious, not taking his eyes off the spirit.

 _That’s our mom._ Somehow, she had remained on Earth as a ghost – a protective spirit, rather than a vengeful one. _Please, God, give her rest after this,_ he prayed. “Because I know who it is,” he said aloud, his voice high and trembling in his own ears. “I can see her now.”

With his acknowledgement, the flames vanished, and before them stood the spirit of Mary Winchester. His mother, of whom he had no memory. The woman whose death drove John to alcoholism and revenge. The woman who Dean swore had loved him so, so much.

“Sam.” She was before him and he could barely breathe. “I’m sorry.”

He struggled to breathe, to force out his next words. “For what?” For dying? She could hardly help that – some _thing_ had killed her. For letting him get grabbed by the poltergeist? But she was here, now, fixing that. The pressure against his body had lessened in her presence, and the poltergeist had not made a move on him or Dean since she had appeared with them.

But Mary Winchester did not answer. Instead, she turned to face the empty room before her. “You, get out of my house, and let go of my son,” she said. Sam inhaled sharply at the stern chill in her voice, right before she burst into flames.

The pressure let up, and Sam sagged, gasping for breath. He didn’t need to see the empty room to know that his mother’s spirit was gone. To be safe, he asked Missouri to check the next morning, and she confirmed what he already knew – she was no longer trapped on the Earthly plane.

Missouri could think that his mother had destroyed herself to destroy the poltergeist all she wanted. Sam had faith that his mother was in heaven – he was sure of it.

But just as important was Missouri’s casual yet heart-felt claim that he had sensed the presence of the poltergeist, even when she had not. “What’s happening to me?” he asked, fighting to keep desperation from his voice. Missouri was psychic – surely she would know something.

Missouri just gave him a pitying look. “I know I should have all the answers, but I don’t know,” she said regretfully, and shook her head.

On the drive to the next seedy motel, Sam shut his eyes tight and willed himself not to dream.

_~Scarecrow~_

Dad was crazy if he thought Sam was going to lie down and start taking orders now, he thought, walking down the road, ready to raise a thumb at the next passing car. Screw Dad – he didn’t get to do this without backup. And screw Dean for trying to stop him. And Dean had the gall to call _Sam_ a selfish bastard. Nah. If that was anyone, it was Dad.

The road did not seem well traveled, nothing but the distant figure of another hitchhiker in front of him. It was a woman, Sam realized as he approached. Something protective stirred in his gut – she looked like she’d be 100 pounds soaking wet, she shouldn’t be hitchhiking alone – but he swallowed it back. “Hey,” he called tentatively.

The woman didn’t respond, rocking back and forth to whatever music was blasting through her headphones. Sam grimaced, took a few steps forward, and lightly tapped her shoulder.

The woman half-shrieked, scrambling to her feet and pulling the headphones out of her ears. “You scared the hell out of me!” she admonished, staring at Sam past light-blonde bangs.

“Sorry,” Sam stammered. “I – I just thought you might need some… help.” No sooner had he closed his mouth than he flushed, embarrassed. _Yeah, you’re a six-foot-four stranger who weighs twice what this girl does. Definitely who she wants to ask for help. Not creepy at all._

The woman shook her head and eyed Sam incredulously. “No, I’m good, thanks,” she said dryly.

 _Smooth, Sam._ He adjusted his bag self-consciously. “Uh, so, where are you headed?” he asked.

The woman continued to stare incredulously. “No offense, but no way I’m telling… you,” she said, her lips quirking up in a tiny smirk.

“Why not?” Sam asked, like an idiot. _You know why, Winchester!_

The woman cocked her head and continued smiling. “You could be some kind of freak!” she said lightly. “I mean, you are hitchhiking.”

Sam couldn’t help but laugh at that. “I mean, so are you,” he pointed out. Right, because this slip of a girl was so very intimidating.

The sound of a horn led them both to turn around. A middle-aged man in a dirty white van pulled to a stop, his window rolled down. “Need a ride?” he called.

“Yeah,” Sam said in tandem with the woman.

The driver snorted. “Just her,” he said, gesturing at the woman, who immediately moved to grab her belongings. “I ain’t taking you,” he said to Sam.

Well, that wasn’t ominous at all. Sam watched with mild disbelief as the woman hopped into the van without hesitation, her belongings in hand. “You trust shady van guy, and not me?” he asked skeptically.

The woman smirked. “Definitely,” she said, as the van pulled away.

0o0o0o0o0

He almost wasn’t surprised to run into the woman again at the bus station. Slightly more surprising was that she, too, was trying to get to California. Somehow, she had the air of more of a free-floater than a person with a specific destination in mind.

“I’m Meg,” she said, apparently comfortable giving her name now that they were in a public space, and would be traveling together.

“Sam,” he said, and wondered why her pretty smile suddenly set him on edge.

0o0o0o0o0

He was glad that Meg wasn’t able to talk him out of going after Dean, when he found his brother in that orchard. Even now, together in the car and safe, the god dead, he couldn’t help but imagine his brother dead, gone, never to be seen again. _Thank you, God._ For helping him get to Dean in time. For the fact that he listened to that niggling warning in his brain, telling him to go after Dean. And especially for being a God that didn’t demand human sacrifices in return for a miracle.

_~Faith~_

Strange vibes, weird dreams. That’s all it meant. That’s _all_ it meant.

He couldn’t let Dean die, he just couldn’t. Not when Dean was dying of a damaged heart because he saved innocent _children_. Not when there was an actual faith healer, a seemingly real miracle, within reach. He might not be Catholic, but God could work a miracle regardless of denomination, couldn’t he?

No. He wasn’t leaving without Dean, no matter what he said, His brother was strong, was hardy, was _not_ going to take the easy route of heart failure, no matter what. Sam knew better. Even if John couldn’t be bothered to call them back, God wouldn’t let him die.

0o0o0o0o0

When Dean walked up to the priest, his face grey, Sam prayed harder than he ever had before.

0o0o0o0o0

Relief coursed through Sam’s veins at the news that that Dean’s heart was entirely healthy – but hearing that it was a reaper that saved him, rather than a miracle of God, hurt worse than any abandonment by his family. His brother’s healing had come at the expense of other peoples’ lives.

Sam tried to tell itself that it was not his fault when Dean lived and the townspeople died.

0o0o0o0o0

Another day, another town, another church. “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It has been three weeks since my last confession.”

This priest was silent, which threw Sam for a moment. “I –” he began, before halting. “I killed someone.” He brought Dean to that faith healer. It was his fault that Marshall Hall had died. “I didn’t mean to, I – I didn’t want to kill anyone, but it was my fault. A man died, and it was all my fault.” Because he couldn’t lose his brother. Because he couldn’t trust that God’s plan was the right plan, couldn’t let Dean’s fate rest in God’s hands, even if it ended someone else’s life prematurely. It was pure arrogance, and the worst part was that Sam only somewhat regretted it.

The silence was nearly deafening. Sam jumped when the priest finally spoke. “There are some who say that intent doesn’t matter,” he said, his deep voice soft, nearly a whisper. “I am not one of them. God gives us good intentions for a reason. What were your intentions, when you caused this accident?”

Sam swallowed hard and fought the urge to argue against the word accident – it wasn’t an accident, it was willful ignorance. He supposed that for someone not acquainted with the supernatural, it could be close enough. Priests couldn’t speak of what you confessed after leaving the confessional, he reminded himself. “I was trying to save my brother,” he said softly, his voice cracking. “And I did, he’s okay, but getting to that point – I was arrogant. I was blind. And a man died because of me.”

Another long silence passed. “Your remorse is a sign that you never intended to hurt anyone,” the priest said finally. “For your penance, you will pray the Our Father five times per day for the next month, and you will read one book of the Bible per week until you have completed it.”

Sam nodded. At least it was not an additional sentence of time without communion. “Thank you, Father,” he said. “O my God, I am heartily sorry…”

0o0o0o0

“Really, Sam? The Bible?” Dean asked, glancing sideways at the passenger seat.

Sam nodded absently, absorbed in Genesis. “Yeah, Dean,” he said. “The Bible. I need to read it.”

Dean snorted. “All right, weirdo,” he said, shaking his head and reaching for the volume dial.

_~Nightmare~_

_A man, driving, license plate MF6037. A garage door that closed without reason. The doors locked suddenly and the engine turned on as the man scrambled at them. Gas spread, floating through the air, filling the garage, the car. The man coughed, screamed for help, thrashed and coughed again until he collapsed._

Sam sat up, panting as he took in the dream – no, it wasn’t a dream, it was a vision. He was sure of it, now. “Dean,” he said, struggling out from under his blankets. His brother showed no signs of movement, so he repeated himself. “Dean.” _Help._

Dean sat up slowly, blearily wiping at his eyes. “What are you doing, man? It’s the middle of the night!”

But Sam couldn’t explain, didn’t have the time to ease his brother into this. “We have to go,” he said, the vision still fresh in his mind, the images seared behind his eyes. He scrambled to pack up as his brother fought his way to wakefulness.

“What’s happening?”

 _There’s no time!_ He wanted to scream. “We have to go, right now,” he said flatly, shoving ends and odds into his bag.

He called the police on the way to Michigan. Just in case they were too late. Just in case –

No, he wouldn’t fail this man like he had Jess. He had time – surely he still had time.

“Sammy, I’m sure it’s just a nightmare,” Dean said, as if he had any idea. As if he knew the difference between nightmare and vision – as if he had seen the things that Sam had seen.

The police called back, and Sam sagged at the news. The man – Jim Miller – was dead. He managed to keep himself together enough to ask for a street address, and then with one piece of advice to Dean – _“Drive faster.” –_ he sagged back into his seat.

He had failed this man, this Jim Miller. He failed him, just like he failed Jess. What even was the point of his premonitions, if he couldn’t stop them?

0o0o0o0o0

Dressing as a priest felt slimy, even worse than their normal dubious disguises. But this man had committed suicide – not quite on Sam’s watch, but close enough. Pretending to be a priest left him unsettled, and he felt like he should go to confession again, but Dean was right. They did need to do something drastic to get close to the family.

While Dean had complained that the high collar was too hot around his neck, Sam felt discomfort down to his bones. _You’re not clean,_ his inner monologue hissed. _Not worthy._ It was probably right. “This has got to be a whole new low for us,” he muttered. Dean smirked in response and rang the doorbell.

“Good afternoon. I’m Father Simmons; this is Father Freely,” Dean said. Sam swallowed down bile. It was necessary for the case, he reminded himself. It could save lives.

God would forgive him for impersonating one of his chosen. At least, he hoped he would.

“We’re very sorry for your loss,” Sam forced out after Dean’s speech. Impersonating a man of the cloth. He couldn’t take his eyes off his shoes as he crossed the threshold and stepped into the house, amongst the grieving family.

They deserved the comfort of a real priest.

“It’s in difficult times like these when the Lord’s guidance is most needed,” Dean said, apparently getting into character. Sam swallowed hard and focused on breathing – no matter what he wanted, he shouldn’t throttle Dean. It was a good line, even if Dean didn’t believe it. And it was accurate, Sam thought to himself, even though the dead man’s brother seemed disinclined to believe it.

Jim’s widow seemed far more receptive to religious comfort. “It was wonderful of you to stop by. The support of the Church means so much right now,” Mrs. Miller said as she poured coffee into mugs.

“Of course. After all, we are all God’s children.” Sam fought to keep from wincing at Dean’s words. It wasn’t that they lacked truth – it was that Dean said them as a script, with no belief behind them. Dean did not believe in God the Father, or even in God at all. He could use words of faith with impunity, because they meant nothing to him. Sam stared down into his coffee.

“What?” Dean asked when Mrs. Miller left, seeming to pick up on Sam’s discomfort.

“Just… Tone it down a little bit, ‘Father,’” Sam said, hoping to keep the bite from his words.

Listening to Mrs. Miller grieve was almost too much. “I’m so sorry you had to find him like that,” Sam said softly, thinking about his vision. His stomach turned, imagining finding a loved one in such a situation.

Mrs. Miller sniffled. “Actually, our son, Max – he was the one who found him,” she said, her voice going flat.

 _Our son, Max. Max Miller._ Something about the name seemed oddly familiar – but was familiar the right word? Relevant, maybe. Appropriate. Sam shook his head and decided to ignore the sense of déjà vu.

He needed to talk to this Max. “Do you mind if maybe I go talk to him?” Sam asked, keeping his voice soft, comforting. The voice of a priest off to comfort a grieving child, not the voice of some sort of bizarre psychic off to follow some uninformed gut feeling. He felt ridiculous even asking to talk to him.

“Oh. Oh, thank you, Father,” Mrs. Miller said, and Sam tried to ignore the clenching in his gut. It was just a case, just another routine questioning of a witness. His disguise as a priest didn’t change that. If he repeated it to himself often enough, he could almost believe it.

Max sat in a chair in the corner, his pale eyes rimmed with irritated red. “Max?” Sam said softly as he approached the boy. Surely Max was Sam’s age, but he somehow looked so much younger. “Hey, I’m –” he should introduce himself as Father Freely “–Sam.” For some reason, lying to this boy seemed wrong. This boy, who by his own admission was saving up for school, who had found his dad dead in the garage.

Something about this boy was too calm, too settled for a kid who found his father’s dead body. Sam didn’t even remember his mother, and reminders of her death still rattled him. Max’s eerie calm seemed unusual, at best. Maybe it was a reaction to trauma.

Maybe.

Dean found nothing supernatural in the house, to go along with Sam’s big fat nothing. Sam grimaced, a headache building. “You know, maybe… Uh…” _God_ , his head hurt. “Maybe it has nothing to do with the house. Maybe it’s just a – ” _sharp pains exploding in his head_ “—gosh, maybe it’s connected to Jim in some other way.” He needed to figure this out, before his head exploded on them. He had never had a vision headache while still awake, while not about to sleep, he never, he never –

_The house. The kitchen. The uncle, the dead man’s brother, drinking alcohol. An open window. Close the window – now walk away, please walk away! No, the window opens again, and the uncle goes back. Pull. Pull. Frustration – no, don’t lean out the window, do not – decapitation._

Sam panted barely aware of Dean’s terrified eyes, his clammy hands clenching around his arms. “It’s happening again,” he forced out. “Something’s going to kill Roger Miller!”

Nightmares were one thing. Nightmares, he could make excuses for. Sudden, debilitating visions while awake – Sam didn’t want to admit to fear, but something that could shut him down at any time? That was terrifying.

“Come on, man, it’ll be all right. You’ll be fine,” Dean said, as though he had any right to make that call. As if he could truthfully say that Sam’s visions, his connections, didn’t freak him out.

It wasn’t until Roger Miller killed himself exactly as Sam’s vision said he would, and Dean took a look inside the apartment where Roger died, that Dean truly believed that the visions were real, he admitted later.

“I know one thing I have in common with these people,” Sam said dryly as they headed out to meet Max Miller. “Both our families are cursed.” Because curses could exist, no matter how the afflicted prayed to God. Sam could only hope that prayer would save his family, would save _this_ family.

Max didn’t seem to be holding up well, Sam noticed. Max was cagey when he spoke to him – closed off, to an unnatural degree. And then Dean asked – but no, they were totally normal and happy. Sam couldn’t buy it.

He should be horrified by the stories the neighbors told, but deep in his bones, Sam knew he knew it from the start. “I must have called the police seven or eight times,” the neighbor said.

“Now you said step-mother,” Dean said, but Sam could barely hear him through the buzz in his ears. Tension built in his head, and _God, please no, please not now!_

The ringing in his ears wouldn’t stop.

“I think his real mom died in some sort of accident – car accident, I think.”

_She’s dead, just like Mom is dead. My fault. My fault._

His head was going to explode. Sam allowed Dean to take the lead in thanking the neighbor for his help and focused on trying to support his own wait on the way back to the car –

_She was chopping vegetables, deliberately cutting out the world around her. Max spoke, and she proclaimed a vague denial. Helpless, Sam stared unblinkingly at the two arguing. Dread coiled in his gut – something was going to go very, very wrong, and he was helpless to stop it._

_“You know I never did_ anything _.” Mrs. Miller said, refusing to meet Max’s eyes._

_“That’s right. You didn’t do anything. You didn’t stop them – not once!” At his words, the knife rose, untouched. Sam fought to breathe, knowing that this was just a vision, that he couldn’t reason with Max._

_“How did you –”_

_The knife flew at her face, and Mrs. Miller backed up, inhaling sharply. Sam screamed internally, to no avail. “Max, please!” Mrs. Miller begged, staring cross-eyed at the knife._

_The knife crept towards her eye, and Sam bit back an impotent scream. “For every time you stood there and watched,” Max said, tears streaming down his pale face, sweat darkening his red hair. “Pretending it wasn’t happening!”_

_“I’m sorry!” Mrs. Miller gasped, hyperventilating._

_Max grimaced, his face shining with sweat and tears. “No, you’re not,” he forced out through gritted teeth. “You just don’t want to die.”_

The connection wasn’t to the Millers, it was to Max.

0o0o0o0o0

Dean demanded an explanation – of course he did. Sam couldn’t blame him, even as nauseating as it was to think back on his visions. “Max is doing it, - everything I’ve been seeing,” Sam said quietly.

“You sure about this?” Dean demanded.

He was. “Yeah, I saw him,” Sam said, _in perfect, too-detailed view_. He saw it all, he heard the argument – hell, he’d smelled the damn vegetables Mrs. Miller was cutting.

“How’s he pulling it off?” Dean asked, taking his eyes off the road for a split second. Sam didn’t have the energy to chastise him for it.

That was a question that Sam didn’t want to answer – but he had to. “I don’t know. It looked like telekinesis.”

“So, he’s psychic? He’s a spoon bender?” Dean asked.

 _Yeah. Like me._ Rather than respond, Sam plowed forward. “I didn’t even realize it, but this whole time, he was there,” he said, marveling at his own damn stupidity. He had even noticed Max’s unnatural calm, and he hadn’t put it together!

Maybe he hadn’t wanted to put it together.

He was rambling, he realized, stream-of-conscious words unchecked. “These visions, the whole time – I wasn’t connecting to the Millers! I was connecting to _Max.”_ Words continued to spew forth, even though Sam’s mind felt eerily blank. “The thing I don’t get is why, man. I guess because we’re so alike?”

What? They were his words, coming from his mouth, in his voice. He was nothing like Max, surely! Apart from some… Strange, terrifying, psychic tendencies, he supposed.

_Hiding in the corner of the motel room because Dad was drunk, and Dad was angry, and Dad was hurting, and his words when drunk and angry and hurting cut to the core, worse than knives, worse than blows._

No. It wasn’t the same. It wasn’t the same at all.

“What are you talking about?” Dean scoffed, glancing sideways at him. “Dude’s nothing like you,” he added.

Sam shook his head, because that was a stretch. “We both have psychic abilities,” he pointed out. “We’re both – ”

“Both _what?”_ Dean demanded, a hint of exasperation in his voice. “Sam, Max is a monster! He already killed two people, now he’s gunning for a third!”

_Monster. Tainted. Unclean. Unholy._

_You killed your mother._

Sam shuddered slightly, silently ordering his internal monologue to quiet. It wasn’t relevant – not now. “With what he went through – the beatings, to want revenge on those people – I’m sorry, man, I hate to say it, but it’s not that insane.” Weren’t they in the business of revenge, after all? Hunting the thing that killed their mother, and all the other monsters they found in the process – it came from a place of vengeance. Max’s monsters may be human, but Sam could hardly fault him for his actions.

Dean glared at the road ahead. “Yeah, but it doesn’t justify murdering your entire family!” he snapped.

“Dean – ”

“He’s no different than anything else we’ve hunted!” Dean yelled. “All right? We’ve got to end him!”

That stung, and it made Sam wonder if Dean saw him as a monster, too. _He’d be right._ “We’re not gonna kill Max,” Sam said out loud.

“Then what?” Dean demanded angrily. “Hand him over to the cops and say ‘lock him up, officer, he kills with the power of his mind –’”

“Forget it,” Sam said emphatically. Max was just a kid, just a tortured kid. No way they could kill him. Sam wouldn’t let it happen. “No way, man.”

“Sam –”

But Sam had had enough. “Dean, he’s a person!” he cried. Max was a person, because if he wasn’t then Sam wasn’t a person, and it was all so – fuck. Fuck. Sam grimaced, his thoughts tangling, jumbling incoherently, leaving only the one concept clear: they would not kill Max. No matter what Dean had to say about it. “We can talk to him,” he added, meeting Dean’s skeptical gaze.

Now he just had to hope that Max was open to listening.

0o0o0o0o0

“You know I never did _anything.”_ Sam flinched as he heard the muffled words through the door, distinguishable only because he already knew what Mrs. Miller was saying.

He didn’t hear Max’s reply, but he didn’t need to. He already knew it.

With a nod at Dean, he took a step back, poised to run at the door. On Dean’s signal, they both ran, slamming into _(past)_ the door, forcing it open. Sam stumbled after Dean, catching himself to a halt in the foyer.

“Fathers?” Mrs. Miller said, clearly confused – but not distressed. Max hadn’t gotten to the knife.

 _Thank you, God,_ Sam thought, breathing somewhat easier. Now, if they could just keep her alive…

“What are you doing here?” Sam glanced at Max, his watery eyes, his red face, his matted hair. He’d been crying. Crying, and sweating, and gathering his nerves to do the thing he had always dreamed of – Sam couldn’t help but feel sorry for him.

“Uh. Sorry to interrupt,” Dean said, spreading his arms wide and backing up. Instinctively, Sam took a step back before Dean could push him, and then he scowled irritated. He pushed past Dean and stepped in front of him.

“Max,” he began – and what would he even say to this poor boy? “Could we, uh… Could we talk to you outside for just one second?” Internally, he winced. Damnit, that was lame. No way Max would go with them now.

Max sniffled. “About what?” he asked, his voice thick, emotional despite the care he was clearly taking to seem flat.

Um. “It’s… It’s private,” Sam said. Shit. Hearing his own excuses, he almost wanted to call Stranger Danger on himself. “I wouldn’t want to bother your mother with it. We won’t be long at all though – I promise.” _Liar._

Max looked at Mrs. Miller, a long, furious stare, before looking back at Sam. “Okay,” he said, his voice tight.

Not okay. Something was wrong. “Great,” Sam said, ignoring the alarm bells screaming in his head.

He sensed that something was wrong as Dean opened the front door, only a second too late. The door and blinds slammed shut, and Max took a step back, raw hatred gleaming in his eyes. “You’re not priests!” Max shouted.

No sooner had Dean drawn the gun than it flew out of his hands, slipping effortlessly towards Max. _Shit._ Had Sam underestimated him, or overestimated his goodness?

Barely breathing, Sam complied when Dean shoved him back and stepped in front of him. _No, no, no!_ Max turned the gun on Dean, shaking slightly.

“Max, what’s happening?” Mrs. Miller demanded, her voice thick with fear.

“Shut up!” Max shouted, and his step mother flew back, slamming chest first into a kitchen counter. “I said shut up!” he added as she cried out.

He had to do something. “Max, calm down!” Sam said desperately, staring at the young man, internally begging that he would listen.

 _“Who are you?”_ Max shouted, brandishing the gun with a shaking hand.

Words. He could de-escalate this, he could. “We just want to talk to you,” Sam said. We want to stop you. We want to understand you. We want to help you.

We want you to help me.

“Yeah, right!” Max shouted. “That’s why you brought _this!”_ He shook the gun emphatically.

When they got back to the motel – and it was a when, not an if – Sam was going to throttle Dean for bringing in the gun. “That was a mistake, all right?” Sam said. Damage control. Please, please, let this be enough damage control. “So was lying about who we were – but no more lying, Max, okay?” From any of them – including lying to himself, he thought. “Just, please – just hear me out.” He just needed to figure out what to say.

Max convulsed, shuddering. “About what?” he demanded.

Easing him into this wouldn’t work – Max clearly already knew about his abilities. He would believe Sam when he talked about them. “I saw you do it,” he said, stepping forwards with his hands raised in peaceful surrender. “I saw you kill your dad and your uncle before it happened.” _I’m sorry I didn’t see anything before that._

“What?” Max’s voice shook too much to hold any real authority.

It didn’t hurt to see where honesty would get him – he already had a gun aimed at his face. “I’ve been having visions, Max,” Sam said, taking another step forward. Hold his attention, talk him down. “About you.”

Max took a deep breath and stepped back. “You’re crazy,” he said, his voice lacking conviction.

“So, you weren’t gonna launch a knife at your step-mom?” Sam asked, stepping forward again. He didn’t think Max would shoot him. Already on edge from adrenaline, and no doubt frazzled by both his abilities and his murders, the kid seemed overwhelmed by the gun. Step forward. Talk. “I think I’m here to help you,” he said finally.

Max took a deep, shuddering breath, a few tears slipping down his cheeks. “No one can help me,” he said, half-sobbing.

The words were new, but the tears – those, Sam understood. The tears that he had swallowed and pushed down and smiled over and buried over the years as school teachers and counselors reached out, unaware that his life couldn’t be fixed with outreach – or, God forbid, a visit from CPS. “Let me try,” he pleaded. _Please, God, help this boy._ “We’ll just talk – me and you.” Psychic to psychic. “We’ll get Dean and Alice out of here,” he added. Dean could help patch up Mrs. Miller, could help her work through the shock.

Max took a deep breath, his face scrunched and red as a tomato.

Dean made a noise that would sound disdainful if Sam didn’t know his brother well enough to recognize the fear beneath. “No way,” Dean snapped, even as he stepped back in tandem with Sam.

Sam could nearly feel the phantom wind as the chandelier rattled above them. “Nobody leaves this house!” Max said, almost enough force in his voice to mask the underlying tremor.

Shit. “Nobody has to, all right?” Sam said, thinking quickly. “They’ll just go upstairs.” If the worst came to pass, Dean could probably safely get Mrs. Miller out through a window.

“Sam, I’m not leaving you alone with him,” Dean said, his voice nearly steady.

Yep, he was definitely going to throttle his brother when they got back to the motel. Why couldn’t Dean see that he wouldn’t be of any help here? Sam could curse him for being so stubborn! “Yes, you are,” he said flatly, not taking his eyes off Max. The poor kid’s hand shook with the strain of holding the gun, and Sam knew from experience that the kid would be very lucky to get off a fatal shot. He was relatively safe – at least, as long as Dean and Mrs. Miller got out of sight before provoking the kid even more!

He couldn’t babysit Dean and help Max at the same time. “Look, Max,” he said, purposefully trying to keep his voice gentle. “You’re in charge here, all right? We all know that.” He took a deep breath. “No one’s gonna do anything that you don’t want to do – but I’m talking five minutes here, man.” Maybe that would be enough. In any case, Max seemed rattled enough that he may not notice if their conversation went long.

“Sam,” Dean breathed, high-pitched.

Max looked away, then looked back at Sam. “Five minutes,” he said thinly, clearly on the verge of tears. “Go,” he added, waving the gun at Dean.

Sam took a deep breath as Dean walked past him, towards Mrs. Miller. In front of him, Max panted, on the verge of hyperventilating. But this was good – they were getting somewhere. They could reason with Max.

Mrs. Miller grunted as Dean touched her shoulder and pulled her to her feet. Sam remained tense, keeping his eyes on Max. As long as the boy could see his stepmother, she was still in danger.

He didn’t relax until both Dean and Mrs. Miller had disappeared safely upstairs.

0o0o0o0o0

Seated across from Max, Sam tried not to be intimidated by the boy’s telekinesis, even as a knife perked up seemingly of its own will. “Look, I can’t begin to understand what you went through,” he began. Certainly, his childhood had been no picnic.

But while Dad had been gruff, and stern, had uprooted them on a whim or left them for weeks on end with growling bellies, dependent on Dean’s clever fingers to feed them – not once had Dad hit them, not ever. Vaguely, Sam remembered one time – he was six, which meant Dean was ten or eleven, and their drunken father had angrily advanced on Dean, his hand raised threateningly. And as soon as Dean backed away, pressing himself protectively in front of Sam, Dad had collapsed onto the bed, weeping, horrified at what he had nearly done to his son.

So, yeah, Sam couldn’t understand what Max had gone through.

Max scoffed, glaring at the twirling knife. “That’s right, you can’t,” he interrupted flatly.

“Max, this has to stop,” Sam said.

“It will,” Max said tightly, “after my stepmother.”

And Sam thought that maybe he could get it, at least intellectually. But it wasn’t right – it wasn’t right to kill a human for doing _nothing._ And that was her crime, doing nothing, Sam knew. It was wrong, it was horrible, but it wasn’t worth a death sentence. “No,” he said quietly. “You need to let her go,” he added, willing Max to see, to understand him.

“Why?” Max asked, not meeting his eyes. Some strange feeling in Sam’s gut told him that the boy was fighting down a fresh wave of tears.

Doing nothing was a neutral action. He could reason this out with Max. “Did she beat you?” he asked quietly.

“No,” Max said stonily. “But she never tried to save me. She’s a part of it too.”

_“Why are you doing this?!”_

_“If you want to leave, you can damn well get the hell out and stay the hell out!”_

_“Please, Dad, don’t. I don’t –”_

_“You made your choice, Sam. Get the hell out of this room.”_

_“Dean. Dean, you don’t –”_

_“You heard Dad, Sammy. At least until he cools off.”_

Sam shook his head. Max, this was about Max. Not about his own family – Winchester family drama had nothing on the Millers. “Look,” he began, “what they did to you – what they all did to you growing up, they deserved to be punished –”

“Growing up?” Red-rimmed eyes met and held Sam’s; no matter how he wanted to blink, he could not look away from Max’s sideways gaze, from his tear-streaked face. “Try last week,” Max said bitterly, holding Sam’s gaze. Unable to look away, Sam watched helplessly as Max stood and pulled up his hoodie to bare his stomach, revealing purple and red and sickly yellow bruises. “My dad still hit me,” Max said through clenched teeth. “Just in places people wouldn’t see it.” He huffed, snot dripping from his nose. “Old habits die hard, I guess.”

“I’m sorry,” Sam said quietly as Max dropped back into his chair. And he was, he really was. But that didn’t mean that Max had the right to kill.

Max took a deep breath and turned his head, staring at the knife. Sam chose to stare ahead, rather than watch the hypnotic rotation of the blade himself. “When I first found out I could move things,” Max began, his voice flat, “it was a gift. My whole life, I was helpless.” He glanced at Sam. “But now, I had this. So. Last week, Dad gets drunk, first time in a long time, and he beats me to _Hell_ , first time in a long time.” Max glanced up from the knife, still spinning idly on the end table, grinding a small hole in the surface. “And then, I knew what I had to do,” he said, words full of conviction even as his voice shook.

Sam swallowed hard, forcing himself to remain quiet as Max spoke. “Why didn’t you just leave?” he asked quietly when the boy paused.

_Bus ticket in hand, he waited. Part of him was grieving, a part he wished he could cut out. The larger part of him was in part elated, in part resentful. Good riddance to Dad. Good riddance to his obsession, his neglect, his alcoholism, his inability to compromise._

_Dean, he would miss. But it was worth it, Sam reminded himself. It would all be worth it. And he had earned it. How many people got a full ride to Stanford, after all?_

_Anyways, Dean hadn’t even tried to stop Dad. Dean had told him to go._

The knife clattered on the table, and Max looked at Sam sharply. “It wasn’t about getting away,” he said, incredulity peeking through red-rimmed eyes. A look of disgust crossed his face, and he shook his head. “Just knowing that they’d still be out there…” He trailed off. The knife twitched on the table, and Max stared at it for a moment. “It was about not being afraid,” he said finally. “When my dad used to look at me, there was hate in his eyes.” He took a shuddering breath. “Do you know what that feels like?”

Anger, exasperation, judgment, disappointment – Sam knew his father’s eyes in each of those states, and he knew them well. But not hate. Never hate. It just wasn’t in the Winchester blood to feel that way towards family, not really. He couldn’t imagine his father look back at him with hatred. Slowly, Sam shook his head.

Max met his eyes and held his gaze. “He blamed me for everything,” he said, and the shake in his voice was no longer nerves, or anger, or uncertainty – his voice shook with pure, unadulterated hatred. Sam found that he couldn’t blame the boy. “For his job,” Max said. “For his life. For my mom’s _death.”_

Sam fought to keep his expression neutral, despite the electric shock that seemed to run up his spine. “Why would he blame you for your mom’s death?” he asked carefully, uncertain if he wanted to hear the answer.

Max laughed, a near silent exhalation, and sat forward. “Because, she died in my nursery,” he half-whispered, a manic smile crossing his face. “While I was asleep in my crib – as if that makes it my fault!”

The room seemed to drop ten degrees, right as the solidity of the chair dissolved around him. Sam fought to keep himself upright, to keep his breathing normal, because no, no, it was a coincidence, it had to be. His strange connection to Max was a coincidence, nothing to do with their mothers and their eerily similar deaths. He shook his head, closing his eyes briefly. “She died in… your nursery?” he asked, hoping that somehow he had misheard. Somehow. Because otherwise – otherwise, it was too close to home.

“Yeah,” Max said bitterly, shifting back and forth, not taking his eyes off Sam. “There was a fire.”

_No._

“And he’d get drunk, and babble on, like she died in some insane way.” Max inhaled sharply. “He said that she burned up, pinned to the ceiling!”

_“S’beautiful Sam, th’ most beautiful woman ‘n the worrrrrrld.” Whiskey breath, incoherent rambling, but Sam would take any scrap of Mary Winchester that he could. “Loved you boys s’much. Alwys… Alwys knew whatta say. Whatta do. No’ like me.” Another swig from the bottle. “Wish we knew what got ‘er. What pins people like tha’, and fire. Boom.” John shook his head laboriously and looked sideways at Sam. “Yer a kid. Shouldn’ pin this all on you. Not’cher fault.”_

Sam swallowed hard. “Listen to me Max,” he said, and he couldn’t stop the embarrassing tremor from sneaking through. “What your dad said – about what happened to your mom – it’s real.” He saw Max shake his head, and he couldn’t blame the kid for not believing him. He knew damn well how ridiculous he sounded.

“What?” Max croaked, staring at him.

Damn it all to Hell. He didn’t want to admit the connection, but it seemed he had no choice. “It happened to my mom too,” Sam said, feeling strangely disconnected from his body as he spoke, “exactly the same.” He’d heard the story too many times when Dad was drunk, and very rarely when Dean broke down. “My nursery, my crib, my dad saw her on the ceiling.”

Max huffed a facsimile of a laugh. “Your dad must have been as drunk as mine,” he said.

 _Alcoholism came later,_ Sam thought. “No,” he said out loud. “No, it’s the same thing, Max.” And it couldn’t be a coincidence. This weird, tenuous connection had to be why he had seen Max. “The same thing killed our mothers!” The thing Dad had been hunting since Sam was an infant.

Max scoffed, shaking his head and sniffling. “That’s _impossible,”_ he said vehemently.

It wasn’t, so Sam plowed on. “That must be why I’ve been having visions during the day,” he said, piecing everything together. His visions had always come when he was sleeping, or at least when he was very tired and on the verge of falling asleep. The sudden onset of the visions of Max suddenly made some sort of sense – he just wished he knew more! “Why they’re getting more intense,” he added. “Because you and I must be connected in some way!” In the way of their dead mothers. Sam hoped there was another, less morbid connection, but he was not optimistic. On a gut feeling, he spoke again before Max could reply. “Your abilities,” he said. “They started six, seven months ago, right? Out of the blue?”

Max’s lips trembled. “How did you know that?” he asked tearfully, narrowing his watering eyes in a poor attempt to hold back tears.

 _Because six and a half months ago, I dreamt that Jessica died._ “Because that’s when my abilities started, Max,” Sam said urgently. “I mean,” he continued, “yours seem to be much further along,” _Telekinesis could have saved her, could have pulled her off the ceiling_ “but still, this means something, right?” When Max didn’t answer, he plowed ahead. “I mean, for some reason, you and I –” it was arrogant to say it, but he had to, he _had_ to “– you and I were chosen!”

Max shook his head and glanced down before looking back up to meet Sam’s eyes. “For what?” he asked shakily.

Shit. He couldn’t answer that – all his training, and he could never answer that. But he could not shake his gut feeling, or the tension that thrummed through his body. “I don’t know,” he admitted. The truth wouldn’t be good enough – he knew it. “But Dean and I – my brother and I – we’re hunting for your mom’s killer.’” He knew it sounded flimsy, but Max stared at him as though he believed him. “And,” Sam began, “we can find answers. Answers that can help us both.” He gulped. “But, you’ve gotta let us go, Max.” Some sinking part of him said that the boy didn’t care. “You’ve gotta let your stepmother go,” he added, his mind flicking to Mrs. Miller. Even as he talked to Max, he couldn’t imagine that she would make it out unscathed.

_Searing flesh and burning hair and screams, screams as he wailed, the stench of charred flesh –_

Max breathed deeply, in and out, in and out. For a moment, everything was silent, punctuated only by breathing. For a moment, he thought everything may be all right.

Then Max shook his head, slowly, the motions so minute that Sam nearly missed them. “No,” Max said, his voice thick. “What they did to me – I still have nightmares!” He breathed heavily, and Sam wanted to speak, wanted to protest, but he could _feel_ Max’s terror, his grief, the sensation of a prey animal lashing out while caught in a trap. “I’m still scared all the time!” Max half-shouted, tears rolling down his cheeks. “Like, like I’m just waiting for that next beating!”

 _Phantom pains from where the last ghost clawed him and threw him through a wall, and_ please, _Dad, can I rest – to nothing, no avail, on your feet Sammy, you can aim a gun so you can hunt, Sammy –_

“I’m just tired of being scared!” Max exploded, leaping from his chair. “Like, if I do this, it will be over!”

Max stalked away, and Sam swore internally, leaping to his feet and half-running to cut Max off where he stood. He whirled in front of the boy and bent his knees slightly, to better make eye contact. “Don’t you get it?” Sam forced out, his voice weak for being split between the living and the dead.  “It won’t!” He took a deep breath, drawing on his own experiences. Less-traumatic, but he could work with it. “The nightmares won’t end, Max,” he said firmly. “Not like this.” He took a deep breath and met those reddened eyes. “It’s just more pain,” he said, “and it makes you as bad as them.”

Max’s face went still, waxy. Hairs raised at the nape of his neck, but Sam drove on. “Max,” he said urgently. “You don’t have to go through all this by yourself.” He had to break through, _please, God, let him listen to me!_

Max was silent for a long moment. “I’m sorry,” he said at last.

Sam had just enough time to wonder what Max meant before the doors of the hall closet shot open and an invisible force _pushed,_ ripping him off his feet and throwing him into the closet. Sam cried out as he hit the back of the wall, but adrenaline overrode the pain he knew he would feel later. The doors shut as he scrambled to his feet; outside, something heavy moved, no doubt to block the doors. “No!” he shouted. “Max!”

Soft footsteps grew increasingly faint, and Sam knew that Max was walking away, was going to go upstairs and kill his step-mother.

_Headache, blinding pain. Mrs. Miller and Dean appeared suddenly in his vision, and Sam shouted, slamming his hands against the door that he no longer saw or felt. Even his own screams were distant, insignificant compared to the intensity of the vision. Helplessly, he watched Max through Dean across the room. He watched Max compel the gun to levitate as it aimed at Mrs. Miller._

_He couldn’t even move as he watched Max kill his brother._

The vision faded to white, and Sam became aware of his own frantic yelling. He sagged back, gasping for air, and tried not to let terror overtake him. “No,” he whispered. _Help me, God,_ he begged. _Please don’t let my brother die._

And suddenly, as Dean’s lifeless form flickered behind his eyes, he didn’t feel terror. Rage instead crawled through his veins, sheer fury, unbridled determination. _“No!”_ he screamed, mentally throwing himself at the door.

The scrape of heavy furniture, moving too fast, jarred him out of his rage. He hadn’t… Had he?

Carefully, he pushed the closet door, which swung open without resistance. He took a deep breath and stepped out into the hallway. _Thank you, God._ Dean would probably laugh himself silly at the idea that God saved his life, but Sam knew, he just _knew_ that he couldn’t have opened the door without divine help. Either God had moved that heavy furniture, or he had sent some sort of jolt to Sam’s latent abilities; either way, Sam prayed a wordless, fervent prayer of thanks as he ascended the stairs.

And he made it in time to save Dean. He made it in time to save Mrs. Miller. If only he somehow could have made it in time to save Max.

Sam couldn’t help but wonder if it was true that all suicides went to Hell. For Max’s sake, he hoped it wasn’t.

“I’ll tell you one thing,” Sam said as he and Dean made their way to the car. “We’re lucky we had Dad.” As much as they had butted heads, as much as he still resented his father, it was the truth. _Thank you, God, for keeping Dad somewhat on the rails._

Dean gave him an odd look. “Well, I never thought I’d hear you say that,” he said mildly.

“Well,” Sam began. He’d heard Max’s story, and parts were eerily familiar. If Dad had been anyone else… “It could have gone a whole ‘nother way, after Mom.” Dean gave him a strange look, and he rushed to clarify. “A little more tequila–” _not that he didn’t have too much already_ “–a little less demon hunting, then…” It was hard to say. “We would have had Max’s childhood,” he finished.

Dean sniffed and looked down. Sam averted his eyes. “All things considered, we turned out okay, thanks to him.” He really should be more thankful for his father, he thought.

Dean looked away for a moment, and when he looked back at Sam, a strange, tiny smile was plastered on his face. “All things considered,” Dean echoed, and opened the car door.

Sam decided not to think about his brother’s strange, grimace-like smile.

It wasn’t until they were back at the motel that Sam found the courage to think about his strange connection to Max, about their similarities. Thinking about it chilled him to the bone, but he had to know. He needed another perspective – a skeptic’s perspective. “Dean, I’ve been thinking,” he said. Best to just rip off the metaphorical band-aid.

“Well, that’s never a good thing,” Dean quipped, continuing to pack as if Sam hadn’t said anything.

Right. The infamous Winchester sublimation technique. Nothing’s wrong if you don’t say it out loud, so don’t say it out loud. It had driven Jess crazy, and Sam had finally agreed to go to couple’s counseling with her, to better learn to communicate. The techniques he learned in counseling wouldn’t work with Dean, though. Communication wasn’t his strong suit any more than it was Dad’s.

Dad, who they still hadn’t heard from.

 _Focus._ “I’ve been thinking, why would this demon – or whatever it is – kill Mom, and Jessica, and Max’s mother, you know?” God, he didn’t want to say it. “What does it want?” he said instead.

“No idea,” Dean said flatly, refusing to so much as glance at Sam. Right. Typical.

He was going to have to say it, to put his ugly, horrifying theory out there. His mouth suddenly tasted like bile, and he swallowed hard, trying to fight back nausea. “You think maybe it was after us? After Max and me?” The words left him in a rush, too late to take back. Not that he wanted to take them back. Probably.

Dean finally turned to look at him. “Why would you think that?” he demanded.

At least Dean was starting to acknowledge that this conversation was important, in his own way. “I mean, either telekinesis, or premonitions – we both had abilities, you know?” And he would love to believe they came from God, he would. But the similarities in their powers and the identical deaths of their mothers – it had to be linked. And he damn well knew that God hadn’t killed his mother. “Maybe it was after us, for some reason,” he said, even as Dean furiously shook his head.

“Sam.” Dean’s voice was flat, final. “If it wanted you, it would have just taken you, okay?” He met Sam’s eyes, and the blankness of his gaze was perhaps the part that startled Sam the most. Dean was _afraid,_ he realized. Afraid that Sam may be right. And he’d hidden fear behind blank walls for years, Sam knew that.

That, and if Dean didn’t think Sam might be right, he’d be giving him all kinds of hell about being demonspawn, or something.

“This is not your fault,” Dean continued, and the sincerity burned. Dean was many things, but rarely was he sincere, preferring to swath emotions in a coat of humor or sarcasm. “This is _not_ about you.” He turned away to continue packing.

“Then what is it about?” Sam asked bitterly.

Dean’s shoulders straightened slowly, and he turned to meet Sam’s eyes, stony-faced. “It’s about that damn thing that did this to our family. The thing that we’re gonna find. The thing that we’re gonna kill. And that’s all.” His expression softened slightly into one of determination, and Sam knew his brother was attempting to believe his own words.

As much as he would like to, he couldn’t leave Dean in the dark about what had happened when he was in that closet. “Actually, there’s – there’s something else too,” he said quietly. Something even Dean couldn’t just disregard.

“Aw, geez, _what,_ ” Dean snapped, pivoting on the ball of his foot and stalking across the room to collect more wayward belongings.

He needed to know. “When Max locked me in that closet,” he began, “with that big cabinet against the door – I moved it.” Not just premonitions. Telekinesis too. Like Max.

Dean laughed. “You’ve got a little bit more upper body strength than I gave you credit for,” he joked, his smile not quite reaching his eyes.

 _You wanted a skeptic,_ he reminded himself. “No, man, I moved it. Like… Max.” He pursed his lips and stared at Dean, willing his brother to drop the façade and be serious with him for _once_ in his damn life.

Dean stared at him for a long moment, silent. “Oh,” he said finally, his voice uncharacteristically quiet. “Right,” he said after another pause, sounding faint.

Sam nodded, idly noticing how disconnected he felt from his body. “Yeah,” he said, as quiet as his brother.

Dean rummaged through an open drawer and produced a metal spoon. “Bend this,” he ordered, shooting Sam a pleading look.

Make it light. Make it funny. Make it a gag, not something that might be a serious problem. He wished he could give Dean what he wanted. “I can’t turn it on and off, Dean,” he said, a bit more sharply than he had intended.

“Well, how’d you do it?”

“I don’t know!” Sam half-yelled. This time, it wasn’t terror fading to anger, but anger fading to terror. He didn’t know, he didn’t know, but it was evil in nature, _he_ was evil in nature, he could go to confession five times a day and live life as a monk and it would never be enough to make him clean, to make him good! “I can’t control it,” he added, barely keeping his terror under wraps. “I just… I saw you die.” He had seen his own brother stop breathing, an image almost more terrifying than Hell. “And it just came out of me, like a – like a punch. Like a freak adrenaline thing.”

Dean stared at him for what felt like hours before looking away. Something in Sam’s chest crumpled; he didn’t know why this felt like a rejection. What had he expected? He’d just told Dean everything, bared his goddamn soul – of course Dean wouldn’t have much to say. Dean could patch up physical pain, but bad experiences? Emotional pain? Fear that couldn’t be countered with a gun? Neither of them had been taught to handle that.

“Well,” Dean said finally, turning back to his suitcase. “I’m sure it won’t happen again.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Sam muttered dully. There was no point in talking about it, he knew that. It wouldn’t solve anything. “Aren’t you worried, man?” he asked, and suddenly he was far from his body, his mouth spilling words without his consent. Shocked, Sam tried to move, to close his mouth, but he was somewhere else, somewhere both present and outside his body, and nothing felt real, and he couldn’t stop the words. “Aren’t you worried that I could turn into Max, or something?”

“Nope,” Dean said, and his voice held no uncertainty. “No way. You know why?”

Yes, he would love to know why. Sam clung to his body as his mouth opened, holding on for dear life. “No, why?” his body asked. Good job, body. He had been meaning to ask the same thing.

“Because you’ve got one advantage that Max didn’t have,” Dean said woodenly.

Sam fought to keep from laughing. “What, Dad?” he said. _He never beat you. Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me._ Sam had grown up relatively safe, not in danger of beatings and abuse. But that wasn’t the point. Dean expected him to be okay, but how could he, in this situation? “Dad’s not here, Dean!”

“No,” Dean said, shooting Sam an irritated look. “Me,” he added when Sam glared at him.

_You’ve got one advantage that Max didn’t have. Dean._

Dean, who raised him, who cared for him, who kept him sane.

“As long as I’m around, nothing bad is going to happen to you,” Dean declared confidently.

He should argue. He should have words to refute Dean’s claim. He shouldn’t just stare at him.

“Now, then,” Dean said, hoisting their bags over his shoulders. “I know what we need to do about your premonitions. I know where we have to go.”

 _Lobotomize me,_ Sam thought to himself, fighting back hysterical laughter. _Or something. That'll make this all stop._ “Where?” he asked aloud, his voice hoarse.

“Vegas,” Dean said, struggling to keep his face solemn. Then he cracked, and grinned at Sam.

Sam shook his head and stared at his brother, struggling to reconcile humor with his new reality. “What?” Dean asked as he scoffed and walked away. “C’mon, man! Craps table, we’d clean up!”

~T _he Benders: Aftermath~_

Being kidnapped and trapped in a cage for the express purpose of being hunted would make or break a man’s faith, Sam knew. He would not blame the ones before him, if they gave up on God. And as it was, he was no better. Sinfully, when he was trapped in the cage, he put his hopes on Dean, rather than God. _What kind of Catholic does that make me_ , he wondered bitterly.

Maybe God saved him by working through Dean, he reasoned. Maybe he knew that God would work through Dean, and that is why he had placed his faith in his brother.

Or maybe he was a sacrilegious piece of shit. That option seemed more likely.

“Lunch?” Dean asked, pulling abruptly into the parking lot of a run-down diner. “I’m starving.”

Sam swallowed back nausea. He had never shared Dean’s great love of food – Jess had often had to drag him from the library to get dinner back at school – and after being trapped in a cage to be hunted for sport, eating was the last thing he wanted to do. He knew how to read between the lines – he knew what happened to the bodies of the people those men had hunted.

Just thinking about it brought on another wave of nausea, but he plastered a smile across his face. “Sure,” he said, opening the door, and following Dean inside.

Their waitress looked to be in her late twenties, dyed red hair with inch-long brown roots, with too-deep circles under her eyes but an otherwise youthful face. “What can I getcha boys?” she asked, smiling. Her teeth were lightly tobacco-stained. Sam smiled politely in return, sinking back in his seat and letting Dean’s charm take the foreground.

“I’ll have your double-bacon jalapeño burger with tater-tots on the side, sweetheart,” Dean said, grinning at her. “Oh, and whatever beer you recommend,” he added with a wink.

The waitress – her nametag read Yvonne, Sam noted – smiled back. “Are you sure about that?” she asked, raising one artfully penciled eyebrow. “The jalapeño burger is pretty… hot.”

Sam fought to keep from rolling his eyes. Great. A waitress that flirted back – now Dean was probably going to want to stay at least one night in town.

“Oh, believe me, I can handle hot,” Dean said, leaning forward slightly. Ugh. Why didn’t Dean have any shame? “In fact, you could say it’s my favorite.”

Yvonne smirked. “You got it, cutie,” she said, before turning to Sam. “And you, sugar?”

He was halfway tempted to ask for a tums, both for his churning stomach and to counteract that sickening display. “Uh, side salad and water,” he said instead, not bothering to open his menu.

Yvonne raised one of her perfect eyebrows again, but did not comment on his meager meal. “What dressing would you like?” she asked.

Dressing, ugh. The thought of clean vegetables was daunting enough without something heavier added to it. “None, thanks,” he said.

“You got it. I’ll be right back with your drinks, boys,” Yvonne said, pocketing her notepad and walking back towards the kitchen.

Dean leveled an incredulous look at Sam. “Really? Salad, with no dressing, and water? Dude, you’re not a chick, you know,” he said. “And even if you were, chicks who starve themselves aren’t sexy.”

Trust Dean to be so grossly insensitive towards women. “Dean, I’m just not hungry,” Sam said, narrowing his eyes. “Besides, it wouldn’t kill you to eat something green occasionally.”

“I do eat green things!” Dean said, offended. “Lots of burgers come with lettuce and pickles, and there’s mint chocolate chip ice cream, and green peppercorn sauce is great on – ”

“You know what I mean,” Sam said, scowling at his brother. “Healthy food.”

Dean shuddered dramatically. “Now _that,_ Sammy, might kill me,” he said. “Or make me grow boobs.”

“You know, beer’s been known to increase estrogen. Keep drinking like you do, and you might get boobs anyways,” Sam said lightly.

“Ah, shaddup, college boy,” Dean asked, chuckling. “Bitch,” he added.

Sam smiled slightly. “Jerk,” he said, turning his head to look out the window as Yvonne returned with their drinks.

When the food came, he tried to pretend the stench of meat coming from Dean’s plate didn’t make him feel sick. When he sent his salad back after only a few bites, claiming to be full, he pretended that he didn’t feel Dean’s hard eyes on him, searching.


	2. Demons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Dean track the demon who killed their mother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, when I originally posted chapter one, I was careless and forgot that Meg would be a big player in this story. I added a section in chapter one to introduce her.
> 
> On the subject of Meg, I was delighted that this story wouldn't contain sexual assault. Then I hit 1x16 and remembered that Meg assaults Sam. Tags have been updated accordingly. Tread lightly, if that will upset you.

_~Shadow~_

A girl with her heart ripped out and some unknown occult symbol wasn’t likely to be an open-and-shut case. Sam tried to ignore the loudness of the bar around him and stared at the article detailing the murder. _Manhunt continues for Stealth Killer_ was printed loudly on the front page of the local paper, along with the picture of the dead girl. Shame the article didn’t have any new information. The poor dead girl deserved better than to be ripped apart by some supernatural entity, as did the potential future victims.

Dean slid into the seat across from his. “I talked to the bartender,” Dean said, and Sam could nearly hear the shit-eating grin in his voice.

Sam didn’t bother to look up from the newspaper. “Did you get anything?” he asked absently. “Besides her number,” he added before Dean could take the opportunity to brag. He didn’t need to hear his brother go into detail about picking up chicks again.

“Dude,” Dean complained, “I’m a professional. I’m offended that you would think that.”

Sam glanced up from the paper and met Dean’s eyes. For a guy who could lie to the cops with a stone-cold poker face and an airtight alibi created on a whim (well, sometimes, at least) Dean could be a pretty crappy liar.

Dean laughed and relaxed, a grin splitting his face. “All right,” he chuckled, holding up a napkin with ten digits written in a neat line. Typical.

It wasn’t time to be off scoring chicks, and Dean _knew_ that, Sam thought bitterly. “You mind doing a little thinking with your upstairs brain, Dean?” he asked irritably. A girl was _dead._ He didn’t understand how Dean could be so blasé, cruising for a hookup while some supernatural killing force was hanging around.

Dean scoffed. “There’s nothing to find out!” he protested. “Meredith worked here. She waited tables. Everyone here’s her friend, everybody says she’s normal!” He gestured loudly, clearly exasperated. “She didn’t do or say anything weird before she died,” he added as Sam stared at him, still skeptical. “So. What about that symbol? Did’ja find anything?”

 _Nice deflection._ “Nope, nothing,” Sam admitted, looking back at the paper. “It wasn’t in Dad’s journal, or any of the usual books.” Maybe they could try calling Bobby. But he hadn’t talked to the old man in years – for all he knew, Bobby got taken down by a werewolf or something long ago. He decided not to suggest asking the older man for help unless Dean brought him up. “I just have to dig a little deeper, I guess,” he said instead.

Dean didn’t look impressed. “Well, there was a first victim, right? Before Meredith?”

“Right,” Sam said, digging through the paper. He hadn’t given nearly as much thought to the first victim, he had to admit. “Yeah. His name was, uh, his name was Ben Swardstrom.” He dug out the article, _Chicago man murdered inside home._ “Last month, he was found, mutilated, in his townhouse – same deal.” Clearly, it was the same thing that had killed them. “Door was locked, the alarm was on –”

“Is there any connection between the two of them?” Dean interrupted.

“Not that I can tell,” Sam replied, unfazed by the interruption. It meant that Dean was thinking, was taking the case seriously. He’d take it. “I mean, not yet, at least,” he added. “Ben was a banker, and Meredith was a waitress. They never met, never knew anyone in common. They were practically from different worlds.” And in Sam’s experience, people from different worlds rarely intersected with each other. Maybe Ben had eaten at this bar and been served by Meredith, but that was the only way in which they were likely to have ever interacted. Crossing from one world to another wasn’t easy – Sam had learned that himself, transitioning from hunting to college.

And here he was, hunting again. Like it had never happened.

“So, to recap, the only successful intel we’ve scored so far is the bartenders phone number,” Dean said, clearly both unimpressed with Sam and pleased with himself.

Motion caught his eye, and Sam straightened, looking past Dean’s shoulder. Distantly, he heard his brother ask something, but he was already standing. He’d let Dean brag about scoring the bartender’s number later. If he didn’t know better, he’d swear the woman sitting at that table across the way was –

He reached out towards the familiar figure and tapped her on the shoulder. The woman turned around, revealing a curious, familiar face. “Meg,” he said, slightly disbelieving. What was she doing here? Why wasn’t she in California?

“Sam!” Meg exclaimed, a smile breaking out across her face. “Is that you? Oh my gosh!” Sam stood stock still, astounded, as she rose from her chair and wrapped her arms around him, pulling him close with surprising strength. She smelled a bit like flowers, Sam couldn’t help but notice, light perfume and reliable shampoo. He returned her hug, still slightly stunned, and tried not to think about how soft she felt in his arms.

There was a smell underneath her perfume, he noticed absently. Something… strange. Eggy, almost.

Meg pulled back and fixed him with a quizzical look. “What are you doing here?” she asked, her expression morphing from delight to puzzlement – still smiling, though, all bright white teeth and sparkling eyes.

“I’m –” he knew he had to lie “–just in town, visiting friends,” he said. Reasonable enough, as long as she didn’t ask to meet his friends. Which she wouldn’t. It’s not like they knew each other, not really. A few hours sharing vague stories about their pasts in a derelict bus stop hardly counted as the basis of a friendship.

 _She did seem happy to see you,_ part of his brain supplied.

 _Shut up,_ he fired off in return. He’d just gotten on Dean’s case for thinking with his downstairs brain. Like hell would Sam let his do the thinking for him.

Meg glanced around, then turned back to Sam. “Where are they?” she asked.

Damn. Sam hoped he wasn’t flushing. “Well, they’re not… here right now,” he stammered. He should have come up with a better cover story. Okay, deflect. He could deflect. “But what about you, Meg? I thought you were going to California!” Not that he wasn’t glad to see her in Illinois. It was just – strange, that was all.

“Oh, I did,” Meg said, smirking. “I came. I saw. I conquered. Oh, and I met, what’s his name – something Michael Murray – at a bar.”

Sam blinked. “Who?” he asked blankly.

Meg shook her head, her smile widening. “It doesn’t matter,” she said brightly. “Anyway, the whole scene got old, so, I’m living here for a while.”

Too-close behind him, Sam heard someone clearing their throat. Dean, he surmised. Not important. “You’re from Chicago?” he asked Meg. It made more sense than her randomly deciding to move from California to middle-America.

Meg laughed. “No. Massachusetts – Andover,” she said. “Gosh, Sam,” she continued, “what are the odds that we’d run into each other?” Her smile, which had not faded, widened again.

What were the odds, indeed. “Yeah, I know,” he agreed. “I thought I’d never see you again.” In a way, it was strange that she’d made such an impression the first time – but she was pretty, and smart, and headstrong, and interesting in a way that many people weren’t. It shouldn’t surprise Sam that she’d remained on his mind, had made a strong enough impression that he recognized her from a distance in some seedy bar.

Meg nodded. “Well, I’m glad you were wrong,” she said.

Dean cleared his throat again, this time too loudly to ignore.

Meg shot Dean a look. “Dude, cover your mouth,” she said.

Sam fought to keep from laughing. “Yeah, I’m sorry, Meg,” he said, glancing back at his brother, hoping that his eyes conveyed the venom he felt. “This is, um –” he had to laugh, because Meg had tried to talk him out of going back, into truly striking out on his own “–this is my brother, Dean.”

Meg gaped for a moment. “This is Dean?” she asked finally.

“Yeah,” Sam said, laughing nervously.

“So, you’ve heard of me?” Dean asked, plastering on his practiced lady-killer smile.

“Oh, yeah,” Meg said, her smile turning cold. “I’ve heard of you. Nice – the way you treat your brother like luggage.”

Sam winced, and tried not to notice how Dean flinched back slightly. “Sorry?” he asked, a defensive edge to his voice.

“Why don’t you let him do what he wants to do?” Meg pressed sharply. “Stop dragging him over God’s green earth!”

Sam laughed nervously. He’d vented to Meg, but she’d clearly come up with an unclear picture. He dragged Dean around as much as Dean dragged him around surely. “Meg, it’s all right,” he said quietly.

Meg and Dean stared at each other for a long while, and Sam wished he could sink into the ground. He hadn’t felt this uncomfortable since – well, okay, it had only been a few weeks ago, when Dean had come with him to Church only to flick paper footballs across the aisle all throughout mass. Still. It was a similar sensation.

“Ookay, awkward,” Dean said finally. “I’m gonna get a drink now.” He gave Sam a piercing look before swiveling around and heading back towards the bar.

Sam exhaled, trying to relax, and Meg turned to him. “Sam, I’m sorry,” she said, and she seemed apologetic. “It’s just, the way you told me he treats you? If it were me, I’d kill him.”

Strong words. “It’s all right,” Sam said quietly, trying on a smile. “He means well.”

Meg nodded. “Well, we should hook up while you’re in town,” she said, directing that pretty smile at him.

Sam nodded past some strangled noise in his throat. “Yeah,” he said. _Not_ hook up _like that,_ he reminded himself. That wasn’t what she was offering. And anyways, he was past that.

….Damn. He was going to have to confess to lust at his next confession. That was always awkward, natural though it was.

“I could show you a hell of a time,” Meg said, which hardly helped to counter his attempts to put a lid on sinful thoughts.

“You know, that sounds great,” Sam said out loud, relieved that his voice didn’t sound as strangled as it felt. “Why don’t you, uh, give me your number?” For case purposes, and nothing more.

Meg grinned and spouted out her number easily. Sam wrote it down, glancing up at her as he did so. “You know what, I never got your last name,” he said easily. Identifying information was useful for the case. No matter how charming she seemed, Meg’s presence here seemed somehow… too coincidental.

“Masters,” Meg said easily.

“Masters?” Sam asked to confirm. He had never met anyone by that last name – not that that meant much, in a country as varied as America.

Meg smirked at him. “So, you’d better call,” she said, flashing white teeth again.

Sam smiled back. “Scout’s honor,” he promised. He shouldn’t make that promise. Who knew if it would result in her getting hurt? Or if – no, again, it was paranoia.

“I hope to see you around, Sam,” Meg nearly purred. Right. Sam smiled at her, then turned away, trying to sort out his thoughts.

Maybe he was just paranoid. Probably. But something about her unchanging grin was almost as unsettling as it was attractive.

Dean caught up with him easily. “Who the hell was she?” he demanded.

Sam didn’t have an easy answer. A girl he bonded with at a bus station, one of the few people who had listened to him and never judged him? Dean wouldn’t take that well. “I don’t really know,” he said instead. “I only ever met her once.” Dean wouldn’t be assuaged by that, he knew, so he continued. “Meeting up with her again? I don’t know, man, that’s weird.” The more he thought about it, the stranger it seemed. Suddenly, Sam wasn’t so sure that his uneasiness was just paranoia.

“So, what was she saying?” Dean demanded, seemingly unable to let the subject drop. “Huh? I treat you like luggage? Were you bitching about me to some chick?”

 _Yeah, and you never bitch about anything to some random chick,_ Sam thought, fighting annoyance. “Look, I’m sorry, Dean,” he said out loud. “It was when we had that huge fight, when I was in that bus stop in Indiana. But that’s not important –”

“Well, is there any truth to what she’s saying?” Dean demanded, undeterred. “I mean, am I keeping you against your will, Sam?”

That wasn’t fair, Sam wanted to argue. It wasn’t like he’d asked to be a hunter, or for Dad to go missing, or for Dean to pick him up at Stanford. “No, of course not!” he said instead. Arguing with Dean wouldn’t solve anything right now. “Now, would you listen?” he asked.

 _“What?”_ Dean demanded, turning around and glaring at him.

Sam swallowed. “I think there’s something strange going on here, Dean,” he said. Hopefully not. _Please, God, let it be paranoia._

“Yeah, tell me about it! She wasn’t even that into me!” Dean exclaimed.

Sometimes, it was impossible to know if Dean was being serious. Sam hoped that Dean wasn’t actually caught up in Meg’s lack of interest in him, because – well. Distractions. “No, man, I mean like, our kind of strange,” he said, trying to sound patient. He wasn’t sure that he succeeded. “Like, maybe even a lead.” He hoped not.

“Why do you say that?” Dean asked, but some of the tension left his shoulders.

 _Well, everyone sounds like a conspiracy theorist sometimes,_ Sam thought wryly before opening his mouth. “I met Meg weeks ago, literally on the side of the road, and now I run into her in some random Chicago bar? I mean, the same bar where a waitress was slaughtered by something supernatural? You don’t think that’s a little weird?”

Dean eyed Sam warily. “I dunno, random coincidence. It happens,” he said.

And man, he hoped Dean was right, but– “Yeah, it happens, but not to us.” Maybe this time they’d be lucky, and it would be a coincidence. Some sinking feeling in Sam’s gut told him it wasn’t.

It was ridiculous. What the hell could Meg even be? _Witch, maybe. Clearly not a spirit. Not a shapeshifter, not with getting in and out of those rooms like that. Demon? Nah, too obscure. Witch is the most likely._ If she wasn’t human, that is. And she was probably human. “Look, I could be wrong,” he said. He hoped he was wrong. “I’m just saying that there’s something about this girl that I can’t quite put my finger on.”

Dean rocked backwards slightly, his eyes glinting. “But I’d bet you’d like to,” he said, minute twitches betraying his poker face.

Damnit, Dean. Sam felt his face heat up. “Maybe she’s not a suspect,” Dean continued, waggling his eyebrows. “Maybe you got a thing for her, huh?” He tapped his temple, grinning. “Maybe you’re thinking a little too much with your upstairs brain, huh?”

Sam bit back a sarcastic retort. “Do me a favor,” he said instead. “Check and see if there’s really a Meg Masters from Andover, Massachusetts. And see if you can’t dig anything up on that symbol on Meredith’s floor.”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “What are you gonna do?” he asked.

Sam shrugged minutely. “I’m gonna watch Meg,” he said. Just until his worries were assuaged. Surely she was just a normal human girl – and Christ, he was about to be an utter sleaze ball just _watching_ her like that – and his concerns were completely misplaced.

Dean guffawed. “Yeaaaah,” he said, smirking.

Sam scowled. “I just want to see what’s what. Better safe than sorry,” he argued defensively.

“All right, you little pervert,” Dean chortled, turning away.

“Dude –”

“I’m going, I’m going.”

Sam scowled and stalked back towards the car. It wasn’t like he was going to be watching her change, for Christ’s sake.

 _Stop taking the Lord’s name in vain,_ he chided himself.

(It was with some mortification that he did, in fact, see Meg change, and the sudden tightness of his jeans both excited him and reminded him that he needed to attend confession as quickly as possible.)

0o0o0o0o0

The thing killing was a Daeva, Dean’s intel said. Somehow, he didn’t think that was what Meg was summoning, he thought absently, watching her speak into a bowl filled with blood. His throat tightened – sometimes, he hated being right. The Zoroastrian symbol in the center of the table sparkled mockingly, dim light reflecting off fresh blood. Bones and black candles littered the altar, and would have convinced him of dark magic even had he not seen her commune with – whatever it was.

Who was she speaking to? Clearly, she knew who Sam and Dean were – he highly doubted another pair of brothers with knowledge of the supernatural was lurking in Chicago.

Whoever she was speaking to – he was coming, that much was certain. And he was no Daeva – from Dean’s intel, he could assume the Daeva were bound to their summoner, and wouldn’t exactly be barking out orders.

It seemed that his idea that Meg might be a witch was right. Damn.

0o0o0o0o0

He let the door slam behind him, not caring to keep quiet. He breathed a sigh of relief as Dean rounded the corner. “Dude, I’ve gotta talk to you.”

“Dude, I’ve gotta talk to you,” Dean said, nearly in tandem. His eyes widened slightly as he looked at Sam.

“It’s Meg,” Sam said.

Dean blinked. “Huh?” he asked.

Sam ground his teeth together. “I knew something was off,” he said. “I found her altar when I followed her. Meg’s the one summoning the Daeva. Man, I saw her talking to – something. Through this bowl of blood.” He swallowed back bile.

“Blood?” Dean demanded sharply.

“Yeah, Dean,” Sam said. “Blood.”

0o0o0o0o0

They needed help. Meg and the Daeva were too big to go after alone, and the connection Dean had found to Lawrence? It was too close to home to be a coincidence. And if Meg was tied up with the demon who killed Mom…

They needed Dad.

Dean was the one to place the call. “We think we’ve got a serious lead on the thing that killed Mom,” he said to Dad’s voicemail. “So, uh, this warehouse.” He gave the address. “Dad, if you get this, get to Chicago as soon as you can.”

Sam made sure to pull everything that could be useful from the trunk of the Impala. The purist in him winced as he gathered exorcism notes from various religions – but there was a reason the exorcisms were passed down, he reminded himself. All these exorcisms were tried and verified, even the ones from protestant and heathen religions. It didn’t make him a bad Catholic to do what worked, he reminded himself. It made him practical. All it meant was that the Church had missed recording these specific exorcisms, no more, no less.

“God, could you imagine if we actually found the damn thing, that demon?” he said. The concept burned brightly inside him – find the demon, end the demon. Avenge Mom.

Avenge Jess.

Dean looked up sharply. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, all right?” he said cautiously.

Sam laughed sharply. “I know,” he said. “I’m just saying, what if we did?” Longing was a bitter knot in his chest. He’d made the decision to hunt with Dean, and he stood by it, but what if he didn’t have to anymore? “What if this whole thing was over tonight? Man, I’d sleep for a month. Go back to school, just… Be a person again.”

He could still become a public defender. His life with Jess was shot, but maybe someday, he’d meet another woman who felt so _right,_ the way she had. Some part of him still wanted to get that public defender job, meet the right woman, and settle down. Marry her, have a few kids, take them to Church on Sundays and just be _there,_ through thick and thin, guiding them through school and life and growing up. Never an absent father. Never leaving them alone to wonder where Dad was, what Dad was doing, if Dad was coming back.

“You want to go back to school?” Dean looked up at him, but didn’t meet his eyes.

“Yeah,” Sam replied, nonplussed. “Once we’re done hunting the thing.” That was what this was all about, right?

“Hm.” Dean dropped his gaze.

“Why?” San asked sharply. He could tell that Dean didn’t approve. “Is there something wrong with that?”

Dean glanced at him, then looked away. “No. Nah, it’s great. Good for you,” he said flatly.

Sam frowned. Dean had been there his entire life, he realized, but he didn’t know what Dean wanted outside of ganking the next monster in front of them. “I mean,” he began carefully, “what are you gonna do when it’s all over?”

“It’s never gonna be over,” Dean said staring down at his gun. He readied it, then looked back at Sam. “There’s always gonna be others. There’s always gonna be something to hunt.”

 _That’s not our responsibility,_ Sam wanted to say. “There’s gotta be something you want for yourself,” he said quietly. Even if all Dean wanted was to live a fast life of rock-and-roll and booze and women, that could be done as a civilian.

“Yeah,” Dean snapped, “I don’t want you to leave the second this thing’s over, Sam!”

Sam blinked. What? “Dude, what’s your problem?” he asked faintly.

Dean scowled at the wall in front of him. He sagged forward, leaning against the cheap motel dresser; Sam took a step forward, but then Dean began to speak. “Why do you think I drag you everywhere, huh?” he asked, turning around, his face twisted with something akin to grief. “Why do you think I came and got you at Stanford in the first place?”

Sam struggled to breathe normally, confronted with his brother’s misery. “Because Dad was in trouble,” he said hesitantly. “‘Cause you wanted to find the thing that killed Mom.”

“Yes, that!” Dean exploded, whirling around, staring hard at the wall. “But it’s more than that, man!”

He could almost see it. He could almost see Dean’s thoughts forming.

_“You heard Dad, Sammy. At least until he cools off.”_

Dean didn’t expect him to actually leave. Dean never factored in the idea that his family might split into pieces.

Dean finally turned around. “You, and me, and Dad,” he said tremulously. “I want us to be together again.”

Sam averted his eyes, unable (or unwilling?) to deal with the pain in Dean’s gaze. He and Dad drove each other crazy. They couldn’t live together, he knew that.

“I want us to be a family again,” Dean continued, staring desperately at Sam.

He couldn’t assuage Dean like this. “Dean, we are a family,” he said quietly. “I’d do anything for you,” he added. And he meant it. He couldn’t think of anything that he would let get between himself and his brother. And yet, he had to be honest. “But, things will never be the way they were before,” he said quietly. He and Dad were too different.

Dean swallowed hard and stared at the wall for a long minute before looking back at Sam. “They could be,” he said softly.

He didn’t want to hurt his brother, but he didn’t want to lie. “I don’t want them to be,” Sam said quietly. “I’m not gonna live this life forever.”

That hurt his brother; Dean turned away, his brow furrowed. “Dean,” Sam said softly, “when this is all over, you’re going to have to let me go my own way.”

Dean looked up sharply, clearly hurt, and Sam tried to not feel guilty.

0o0o0o0o0

Sometimes in hunting, plans went sideways. This, Sam thought wryly, testing his bonds, was definitely one of those times.

The gashes on his face bled freely – the Daeva had not so much cut through his skin as ripped it. It would be a miracle if they didn’t scar, he thought distantly. Sam had never considered himself particularly vain, but the idea of sporting a scarred face for the rest of his life made his stomach twist.

Meg stood before Sam, smirking triumphantly down at him. Her eyes glinted with unpleasant delight, and she ran her tongue over her teeth as she appraised him.

“Hey, Sam?” Sam twisted his head, wincing as the motion tugged his torn cheek. Dean was tied to a pole next to him. His face, for the most part, had remained largely unscathed. Bastard. “Don’t take this the wrong way,” Dean said, “but your girlfriend? Is a bitch.”

Meg’s smile widened.

Sam wiggled his arm minutely, trying to dislodge the knife he carried in his sleeve. If he could just get hold of it, he could cut himself free. But he needed to keep Meg distracted, somehow. “This, the whole thing, was a trap,” he said flatly, drawing her attention – to his face, not to his arms. Good. “Running into you at the bar, following you here, hearing what you had to say – it was all a setup, wasn’t it?”

Meg laughed breathily and waggled her eyebrows.

“And that the victims were from Lawrence?” Sam asked, leaning his head back against the pole to better see her face. Again, his torn cheek protested.

“It doesn’t mean anything,” Meg said, her high voice laced with delight. “It was just to draw you in – that’s all.”

Sam felt his upper lip draw back in a snarl. “You killed those two people for nothing,” he spat bitterly.

“Baby, I’ve killed a low more for a lot less,” Meg countered, fixing Sam with a condescending look.

“You trapped us. Good for you,” Dean said sarcastically. Meg turned to face Dean, and Sam was better able to focus on freeing his blade. Cold metal inched down his arm, dangerously close to the pole; Sam pulled his arm away as far as he could. If the knife clanged against the pole, the game was up.

“It’s Miller time,” Dean continued, pasting a smirk on his face. “Why don’t you kill us already?”

Meg tilted her head, regarding Dean with curiosity. “Not very quick on the uptake, are we?” she asked mockingly. She leaned forward, and Sam bit back the urge to scream at her to get away from his brother. “This trap isn’t for you,” Meg said, smiling.

Sam felt as though the air had been knocked out of his lungs. They hadn’t been sure if they could take on Meg and her boss alone – so they had called for _backup._ Of course. It was stupidly obvious. “Dad,” he managed to choke. Oh, God. Dad would be walking right into a trap. And yeah, Dad was – well, he was John Freaking Winchester, but the Daeva had taken down both Sam and Dean in only a few seconds. “It’s a trap for Dad,” he forced out, looking over at Dean. His arms faltered for a moment behind his back.

Meg’s smile widened and she sat back as Dean turned back to face her. Sam could practically see his brother’s poker face slide on. “Aw, sweetheart, you’re dumber than you look,” he said patronizingly. “Because even if Dad was in town, which he is not –l” _he wasn’t until we called him and asked him to come_ “– he wouldn’t walk into something like this. He’s too good.”

“He is pretty good,” Meg agreed. “I’ll give you that.” She glanced between them, and Sam barely stilled his arm in time. Fluidly, Meg rose towering above the two of them. “But you see,” she said, stalking towards Dean and crouching down at eye level, “he has one weakness.”

“What’s that?” Dean demanded flatly.

“You,” Meg said, and for once, she wasn’t smiling. “He lets his guard down around his boys. Lets his emotions cloud his judgment.” Meg leaned forward, her face nearly touching Dean’s, and Sam continued frantically working the knife down his arm. So close – it was almost at his palm, he could almost reach it.

“I happen to know he is in town,” Meg continued, “and he’ll come and try to save you. And then the Daevas will kill… everybody. Nice, and slow…” She looked over at Sam. “And messy.”

Dean sneered at her. “Well, I’ve got news for you,” he said darkly. Meg looked back at him. “It’s gonna take a lot more than some _shadow_ to kill him.”

“Oh, the Daevas are in the room, here,” Meg said, matter-of-fact. “They’re invisible,” she said, leaning forward even further. Maybe before, Sam would have appreciated the strip of skin that showed as her jacket rode up; now, he just wanted her to get _off_ his brother. “Their shadows are just the only part you can see.”

He couldn’t take it anymore. “Why are you doing this, Meg?” Sam demanded. “What kind of deal d’you got worked out here, huh? And with who?”

“I’m doing this for the same you do what you do,” Meg said loudly, turning her head towards Sam. “Loyalty. Love.” She cocked her head. “Like the love you had for Mommy! And Jess.”

Sam couldn’t imagine what kind of sick, twisted love would lead someone to summon a demon and commit murder. “Go to Hell,” he muttered.

Meg offered a tiny, almost flirtatious smile. Sam’s stomach flipped unpleasantly. “Baby, I’m already there,” she said, and her smile widened to a grin.

Sam stared, sickened, as Meg rolled off Dean’s lap and crawled, languid, towards him. “Come on, Sam,” she purred. “There’s no need to be nasty.” She crawled up onto Sam’s lap and leaned in. _God, please, no,_ he thought as she pressed her lips to his neck and sucked lightly. Her lips were soft, and gentle, and in any other time it would have turned him on, but instead, his gut roiled with disgust. Meg pulled off and pressed her face against his. “I think we both know how you really feel about me,” she murmured, her breath hot against his uninjured teeth. Her breath carried the stench of something rotten, like spoiled eggs.

“You know,” she said as Sam tried to twist his head away, “I saw you watching me changing in my apartment.” The image of Meg in only her bra flashed behind Sam’s eyes, and he grimaced. “It turned you on, didn’t it?” she asked, her lips barely inches from Sam’s. Sam bit his lip and glared as the stench of sulfur assaulted his nose.

“Oh, get a room, you two,” Dean muttered. If Sam had a free hand, he would have flipped his brother off.

Scratch that, if he had a free hand, he would shove Meg all the way across the room. Her touch sent felt _wrong_ against his skin, one of the least arousing things he had ever felt in his life. He could practically feel his dick attempting to retract into his body.

“I didn’t mind,” Meg murmured, her breath too hot against his ear. “I liked that you were watching me.” Sam swallowed back nausea as her hands tightened on his body. With her so close, he couldn’t even focus on reaching his knife. A sudden, horrified part of him wondered if she would try to have sex with him before their Dad got there, or if she would just continue to mouth at him and torment him with touches that would have been, in any other circumstance, sexually appealing. “Come on, Sammy,” she whispered, mouthing at his neck and ear. “You and I can still have a little dirty fun.”

Sam swallowed hard as what little he had eaten that day threatened to come back up. Never before had the idea of a sexually confident woman intimidated him, but he had also never been tied down any groped by a woman using him to try to kill his _father._ Sam’s heart beat wildly, and his thoughts felt staticky. He wanted her _off_ him, he wanted her to stop, if he could only get his hands on a gun he would shoot her right now, but he couldn’t do more than twitch beneath her.

He wasn’t just going to sit silently while she – while she did this. “You wanna have fun?” he forced out through gritted teeth. “Go ahead, then. I’m a little tied up right now.”

Meg smirked and bit gently at his collarbone, mouthing the sensitive skin. Sam grimaced, straining at his bonds, all finesse at retrieving the knife gone. He just wanted her _off._ She moved up his neck, and his saliva-soaked skin crawled in the wake of her mouth.

The assault on his neck stopped abruptly as a loud clicking sound echoed through the warehouse. Sam slumped back, relieved, even as Meg turned to look at his brother. His eyes darted between Meg and Dean, and then she was climbing off him, her weight off his legs, her pelvis no longer grinding minutely against his unaroused dick. Thank God.

Meg stalked over to Dean and reached behind the pole. Sam strained to pull his arms away, and – _yes!_ – his switchblade fell flat into his palm. He immediately began worrying at the ropes with the edge of his blade.

Meg pulled Dean’s blade from his hand and threw it across the room. She pivoted on her foot and crouched before Dean, who smirked back at her. Meg would interpret Dean’s expression as pure bravado, Sam knew. And then she turned and slunk back towards Sam, pulling herself gracefully across the floor. Suddenly, her weight was back on him, her lips against his face. “Now, were you just trying to distract me?” she purred, lipping his face, “while your brother cuts free?”

Sam fought back a smirk. “No,” he said, just as quietly. He pulled his face away from Meg and turned to meet her eyes. “No.” The last fiber snapped as Meg turned around to sit fully on his thighs. “It was because I have a knife of my own.” He reached out with newly freed hands, grabbed Meg by the upper arms, and slammed his forehead against hers as hard as he could.

Pain shot through his head, but Meg’s weight left his body as she fell backwards with a shocked cry. Sam shouted, pressing a hand against his forehead.

“Sam!” Dean shouted. “Get the altar!”

Right. Prevent Meg from summoning back this Daeva and putting them right back where they started. Sam ran towards the altar, summoning his rage towards Meg, his feeling of violation. With a cry, he lifted the altar and slammed it into the ground, sending blood and bone and candles flying every which-way.

A shadow flickered in Sam’s peripheral vision, and he whirled around. Meg screamed as the shadow grabbed her and began dragging her towards the window. The sound of shattering glass was even louder than Meg’s screams as she flew from the window.

Sam ran to untie Dean, helped his brother up, and made his way towards the window. Meg lay motionless on the pavement below, her neck twisted, her limbs splayed at unnatural angles. Sam laughed, and his cheek throbbed at the motion. “So, I guess the Daevas didn’t like being bossed around,” he said quietly.

Dean shook his head. “I guess not,” he replied.

0o0o0o0o0

Dad. Dad was in their room. And he was safe, and he was whole, and he even looked healthy and rested. He wrapped his arms around Dean, but he nodded at Sam, and that hurt worse than his shredded cheek.

Dad confirmed, in his roundabout way, that Meg was connected to the demon that killed Mom. That was something, at least.

And then Dad was hugging him, and Sam couldn’t help but melt into his father’s embrace. Ever since he left for Stanford, he knew his father was disappointed in him, even resented him.

But Dad was here, now, and solid as stone, and when his arms wrapped around him, Sam felt safer than he had in years.

Dad pulled back, a sad smile on his lips. He looked at Sam, then at Dean, and his mouth opened slightly as though to speak.

And then Dad was flying backwards, a noise of surprise ripped from his throat. Sam screamed as a shadow knocked him backwards; from Dean’s yell, he had been thrown too.

How? They had killed Meg! The Daeva should be gone!

The shadow came at Dad, clawing at Sam and Dean to hold them back. Sam grimaced and forced himself to sit up, reaching for the bag. Shadows needed darkness, right? His hand closed on something cylindrical and familiar. “Shut your eyes!” he shouted, pulling out the flare. “These things are shadow demons, so let’s light them up!”

0o0o0o0o0

Sam tried not to be hurt when Dad left without them. He understood – he did. They were weaker together. They slowed Dad down, held him back. They were a liability.

It still hurt.

0o0o0o0o0

“Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It has been two weeks since my last confession.”

This priest acknowledged him almost immediately. “Speak, my son,” he said.

Sam swallowed hard, and fought back bile. The stitches on his cheek pulled slightly as he opened his mouth. “Lust,” he said, his voice choked. “And sexual conduct.”

_~Something Wicked This Way Comes~_

He wished that he could absolve Dean of his guilt. He hadn’t died when Dean left him alone, after all. Dad had saved him, and the monster hadn’t surfaced to kill before now.

Still, when the shtriga lay dead on the floor, as Michael crawled, unharmed, from under the bed, Sam could feel the relief that emanated from Dean.

He wished he could go back and speak to young Dean, to thank him. Dean had basically raised him, after all. Dean had been Dad well before his time, when Dad couldn’t be there for them. Sam wished he could thank the younger version of Dean, could tell him that it was all right, that his little brother had turned out just fine.

_~Provenance~_

They destroyed the painting, and in a way, Sam was glad that they didn’t have a reason to stick around. Sarah’s skin was soft, and her face was pretty, and he could see himself falling in love with her in time. It was better that they left now, before they ruined her life.

Sam swallowed past the lump in his throat. Something told him that his chance to settle down with the right girl and raise a family had passed with Jess. At least, he supposed, Sarah still had a chance to be happy.

_~Dead Man’s Blood~_

“Man in Colorado,” Sam read from his computer. Dean sat across from him, his elbows propped on the cheap plastic diner table. Just another day of looking for leads – and hopefully they would find something soon. “Local man, by the name of Daniel Elkins, was found mauled in his home.”

“Elkins. I know that name,” Dean said, his brow furrowed.

How? “Doesn’t ring a bell,” Sam said, worrying his lower lip with his teeth as he continued to read. “It sounds like the police don’t know what to think,” he said aloud. “At first they said it was some sort of bear attack, and now they found signs of robbery.”

“Mm.” It didn’t sound as if Dean was paying attention; Sam saw him moving in his peripheral vision. He ignored his brother’s seeming impatience and continued to read.

“Here.” Sam looked up; Dean was holding Dad’s journal. “Check it out,” he said, handing it across the table to Sam.

Sam took the journal from Dean, his eyes immediately drawn to the contact information on the page. “You think it’s the same Elkins?” he asked, glancing between the entry and his brother.

“It’s a Colorado area code,” Dean said in response.

0o0o0o0o0

Elkins used the same codes as Dad. His journal looked like Dad’s, but older. And now, a letter for J.W. – John Winchester?

This man was clearly important in their father’s life. How had they never met him before?

“Should we open it?” Dean asked hesitantly, looking at the letter.

Something loud banged outside the window. Sam jumped and turned in the direction of the sound, staring wide-eyed at the face outside the window. His father stared back, grim-faced.

“Dad?” Dean yelped, apparently startled.

John walked around the back of the car, opened the back door, and slid into the backseat. Sam twisted to better stare at his father. “Dad, what are you doing here?” he demanded. Less than a month ago, Dad had taken off without them to keep them from becoming liabilities – and now he was back? “Are you all right?”

“Yeah, I’m okay,” Dad said, though the exhaustion lacing his voice suggested otherwise.

Distantly, Sam noticed that Dad, like himself and Dean, bore no scars from the encounter with the Daeva. _Winchester genetics,_ he thought distantly. It had always been somewhat of a joke in their family, that no matter how badly they were hurt, they almost never scarred.

“Look, I read the news about Daniel,” Dad said, staring out the window with glazed eyes. “I got here as fast as I could.” John looked back at Sam, meeting his gaze with haggard eyes. “I saw you two up at his place.”

Something in Sam’s stomach twisted. “Why didn’t you come in, Dad?” he asked tentatively.

“You know why,” John said, the warmth in his eyes dimming slightly. “Because I had to make sure you weren’t followed, by anyone, or anything.” He paused. “Nice job of covering your tracks, by the way.”

John didn’t believe in frivolous compliments – he genuinely must be impressed, to say anything at all. Sam should have been pleased by the rare praise. But it was hard to breathe, and his skin felt too hot, too tight. Dad had ignored them for months – had blown them, his own sons, off even when they met in person. Now some random guy was dead – or some not-so-random-guy, which raised its own questions – and Dad was willing to drop everything?

“Yeah, well, we learned from the best,” Dean said quietly from the driver’s seat.

“Wait,” Sam burst out. “So, you came all the way out here for this _Elkins_ guy?” he demanded.

John looked down, grief etched in the lines of his face. “Yeah,” he said, his voice thick. “He was – he was a good man.” He looked up and met Sam’s eyes again, but his gaze was distant. “He taught me a hell of a lot about hunting,” he added.

“You never mentioned him to us,” Sam said, struggling to moderate his voice. Dad always has reasons, he reminded himself.

_Yeah, well, sometimes his reasons suck._

Technically, the Bible demanded that the faithful man should “honor thy father.” Sam had to assume there were exceptions, because sometimes, Dad was just so – so – _infuriating._

“We had a –” John stared at his lap again. “We had kind of a falling out. I hadn’t seen him in years.”

Story of Dad’s life, Sam couldn’t help but think. Dad had even managed to drive _Bobby_ away, and that was after teenage Dean’s prototype stink bombs and pubescent Sam’s screaming rages and fits of angst had failed to even faze the man.

John’s eyes zeroed in on the letter. “I should look at that,” he said, glancing at Dean. It was an order, couched in a statement; silently, Dean handed the letter back to their father.

Discontent roiled in Sam’s gut as his father read the letter, though he could not identify the cause of his upset.

“If you’re reading this, I’m already dead,” John said aloud. He paused, scanning the letter. “That son of a _bitch,”_ he said, but there was no heat in his voice.

“What?” Dean demanded, his spine cracking as he twisted around to stare at Dad.

“He had it the whole time,” Dad said, staring at the letter.

Sam swallowed hard. “Dad. What,” he asked, trying to convey that he wasn’t just asking for an answer, he _needed_ an answer. Dad had kept so much from them throughout the years. He owed them an explanation, at least this once.

“When you searched the place, did you – did you see a gun?” John demanded. “An – an antique, a colt revolver? Did you see it?” His voice was tinged with desperation.

Sam had no idea what Dad was talking about; fortunately, Dean seemed to get it. “I, uh, there was an old case, but it was empty,” he stammered.

John winced. “They have it.”

“You mean whatever killed Elkins?” Dean demanded.

John rocked back. “We’ve gotta pick up their trail,” he said flatly. He nearly threw himself from the car, then spun around to look at them, jerking his head as if to say _let’s go._

“Wait,” Sam said, staring at his dad. “You want us to come with you?” After all of this?

“If Elkins is telling the truth, we’ve gotta find this gun,” Dad snapped.

“The gun?” Sam demanded. He’d been given his first gun when he was nine. What made this weapon so special? “Why?” he demanded.

“Because it’s important, that’s why,” Dad snapped.

Dad could stop being full of _shit_ at any minute. “Dad, we don’t even know what these things are, yet!” Sam cried. Not werewolves – wrong time of the moon cycle. Not wendigos – too many of them. Not ghosts, or demons – they crossed salt lines.

“They were what Daniel Elkins killed best,” Dad said tightly. “Vampires.”

What? Sam stared at his Dad, looking for the joke.

“Vampires?” Dean asked finally, incredulous. “I thought there was no such thing.”

_Put down that damn Dracula book, Sam. There’s no such thing as vampires. You want to read about monsters, I’ve got some research you can do._

“You never even mentioned them, Dad,” Sam said out loud.

John shook his head. “I thought they were extinct,” he said quietly. “I thought Elkins and… others… had wiped them out.” John took a deep, shuddering breath. “I was wrong,” he said quietly.

0o0o0o0o0

Dad seemed eager to teach them about vampire lore, even if it was mostly secondhand. Vampires were smart, Sam reasoned, as his dad droned on. Faking a reaction to garlic and crosses was a sign of some intelligence, and was a damn good way to fool inexperienced hunters.

The need for blood to survive, on the other hand, rolled in his stomach. Something about the idea of consuming blood both drew him in and repulsed him. Morbid fascination, he decided, as Dad and Dean continued their research.

0o0o0o0o0

Crackling of a police scanner. “Sam, Dean, let’s go.” Sam heard his father distantly as he struggled to rise from sleep. “Picked up a police call,” John said as Sam and Dean sat up.

“What happened?” Sam asked blearily.

“Couple called 911,” John said tightly. “They found a body in the street.”

0o0o0o0o0

The body was the result of the vampires – or so said Dad. As usual, the man was _impossible,_ refusing to provide explanations, expecting Sam and Dean to blindly obey, barking out orders and demands. The whole time they had looked for Dad, Sam had missed his father, had wanted nothing more than to see him again. Now, faced with the man again, he was beginning to remember why he had been so desperate to get away in the first place.

Dad finally answered one – _one_ – of Sam’s questions, providing a tooth as evidence that the vampires had killed the victim. Sam suppressed a snort. Now that Dad had been right once, he’d probably keep them in the dark for the rest of the case, assuming he followed the good ol’ John Winchester precedent.

“Let’s get out of here. We’re losing daylight,” John said, turning away and walking towards his truck. “Dean, why don’t you touch up your car before you get rust?” he called as he walked away, barely glancing back. “I wouldn’t have given you the damn thing if I thought you were gonna ruin it.”

The words weren’t even directed at him, but Sam felt his jaw go slack in disbelief. As if Dean would ever mistreat the car! The idiot loved that thing more than his own damn life! Dad clearly hadn’t even looked at it – he was just looking for reasons to reprimand.

Sam had nearly forgotten that his father could be such an unabashed _asshole._

Dean glanced at Sam and nodded towards the car. Sam pretended that he didn’t see the flash of hurt in his brother’s eyes.

0o0o0o0o0

“Vampires nest in groups of eight to ten. Smaller packs are sent out to hunt for food. Victims are taken to the “nest,” where the pack keeps them alive, bleeding them for days or weeks,” Dean said, reading from Dad’s notes. “I wonder if that’s what happened to that 911 couple?”

Sam glared at the road. “That’s probably what Dad’s thinking,” he said tightly. “Of course, it would be nice if he just _told_ us what he thinks.” But that would require talking, open communication, and telling the truth – none of which Sam associated with his father. He had no reason to.

Dean shot him a hard look. “So, it _is_ starting,” he said mildly.

Sam took his eyes off the road for half a second to look at his brother. “What?” he asked. First Dad refusing to be forthright, now Dean was being passive-aggressive. Great.

Dean rolled his eyes. “Sam, we’ve been looking for Dad all year,” he said, exasperation seeping into his voice. “Now, we’re not with him for more than a couple hours, and there’s static already?”

Sam scoffed. Yeah, they’d been looking for Dad all year, and the bastard had been actively avoiding them the whole time. Now, he thought he could just burst back into their lives and start barking orders, and they’d obey like good little soldiers?

But he wasn’t going to give Dean the satisfaction of being right. “No,” he said, glancing again at his brother before returning his gaze to the road. “Look. I’m happy he’s okay, all right?” And he was, he really was. Angry as he was with his father, the idea of Dad dead or in distress – just thinking about it sent chills down his spine. “And I’m happy that we’re all working together –”

“Good,” Dean said, cutting him off.

Sam grimaced. It irked him to compare Dean to Dad, but damn if they didn’t both act like they were allergic to talking. “It’s just, the way he treats us – like we’re children,” Sam said finally.

“Oh, God,” Dean muttered.

 _Oh, God, indeed,_ Sam thought. He wasn’t a damn child. He’d lived on his own, working shit jobs to pay his rent while working his ass off in college, for years. He’d met and lost the love of his life. He had nearly had his face ripped off by some Zoroastrian demon, he had saved dozens of lives, he had fought and scraped to survive, and he had somehow managed it. Dad didn’t get to treat him like some naïve kid. Not with what he’d been through. “He – he barks orders at us, Dean,” Sam said angrily, fighting to get his thoughts in order. “He expects us to follow him without question!”

“Sam –”

“He keeps us on some crap, “need-to-know” deal!” Sam exploded, his knuckles whitening on the steering wheel.

“He does what he does for a reason –”

“ _What_ reason?” Sam demanded, fully aware that he had interrupted his brother, but strangely unable to care. There was no damn reason for Dad to keep them in the dark – it was a power trip, nothing more.

“Our job!” Dean shouted. “There’s no time to argue! There’s no margin for error! All right? It’s just the way the old man runs things!”

 _And that attitude is gonna get us killed someday,_ Sam thought angrily. “Yeah, well, maybe that worked when we are kids, but not anymore.” He was _tired_ of being left in the dark. “Not after everything you and I have been through, Dean.” For eighteen years, he had operated off of _“Because I said so”_ from his father and brother, but no longer. Not when he left it all behind to live his own life, and certainly not now that he was choosing to come back to his old life to help his family. He was finally doing what they wanted – hunting without complaint – and he would be _damned_ if he let them treat him like shit when he had thrown away everything for them. “I mean, are you telling me you’re cool with just falling into line and letting him run the whole show?” he asked when Dean said nothing.

Dean was silent for a moment. “I mean, if that’s what it takes,” he said finally.

Sam couldn’t help but stare at him after that, trusting that the straight stretch of empty road was safe as he just – tried, _tried,_ to understand his brother. Finally, he looked back at the road.

Whatever. Dean could live life under Dad’s thumb. Sam wouldn’t do it.

0o0o0o0o0

Sam couldn’t help but stew as drove, biting back the absurd urge to press down hard on the gas and slam into the damn vehicle ahead. “Don’t,” he snapped as Dean reached for his collection of cassettes.

“Why not?” Dean asked, frowning. “You’re not listening to anything!”

“Because I don’t want to listen to music right now,” Sam said tightly.

Dean scowled. “Okay, got it,” he said. “Listeners, this is “Silent Brooding” by the Little Bitch Squad,” he said dramatically, mocking the voice of an old-timey radio announcer.

Dean’s phone rang before Sam could reply, which was just as well. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to say anything. “Dad?” Dean said into the phone. “Uh-huh.” A moment of silence. “Yeah, Dad. Got it.” Dean snapped his phone shut. “Pull off the next exit,” he said to Sam.

“Why?” Sam demanded flatly.

“Because Dad thinks we’ve got the vampires’ trail,” Dean said, his voice just as flat.

Sam scowled. “How,” he demanded, not bothering to expect that Dean knew. Dean didn’t question their Dad. Dean tried to be a good fucking little soldier, and Sam was _over_ it.

“I don’t know. He didn’t say.” Typical.

Sam pulled off at the exit as instructed, then yanked the car onto the shoulder of the road. Dad’s truck fought to keep up with them, he noticed with savage glee.

“Ah, crap, here we go,” Dean muttered. Asshole.

Sam slammed the car door behind him as he stalked towards his dad.

“What the hell was that?” John demanded.

“We need to talk,” Sam snapped.

“About what?” John snapped back.

“About everything!” He was tired of being left in the dark. “Where are we going, Dad?” he demanded. “What’s the big deal with this gun?”

“Sammy, come on!” Dean begged. “We can Q-and-A after we kill all these vampires!”

“Your brother’s right,” John said irritably. “We don’t have time for this.”

No. “Last time we saw you, you said it was too dangerous to be together!” Sam shouted. “Now, out of the blue, you need our _help_? Obviously, something big is going down, and we want to know what!” He wanted to know what. He needed to know what.

John glared at him. “Get back in the car,” he said, his voice promising violence.

But Sam could deal with familial violence, had dealt with it his whole life. “No,” he said.

John glared. “I said get back in the damn car,” he ordered.

“Yeah,” Sam breathed, straightening his spine. Like _hell_ would he let his Dad control him anymore. “And I said no.”

“All right, you made your point, tough guy!” Dean shouted. Asshole. “Look, we’re all tired – we can talk about this later!” Hands slapped against his chest, breaking Sam’s reverie; he turned to look at his brother, staring wildly at him as he was pushed away from their father. “Sammy, I mean it, come on.”

He let Dean guide him, though rage still pulsed through his veins. “This is why I left in the first place,” he muttered. This shit tendency for John to keep his sons in the dark and expect them to obey without question.

“What’d you say?”

John’s furious words cut through his haze of anger. He spun around, Dean be damned. “You heard me,” he snapped, almost surprised to realize that he meant every word.

“Yeah,” John spat, “you left. Your brother and me – we _needed_ you. _You_ walked away, Sam! _You walked away!”_

Unfair. How _dare_ Dad try to guilt him for having a damn life.

“Stop it, both of you!” Dean screamed.

Sam hardly heard his brother. “You’re the one who said “don’t come back,” Dad!” he shrieked. “You’re the one who closed that door, not me! You were just pissed off that you couldn’t control me anymore!”

The mental pain, the emotional pain – sometimes, especially at the beginning, he thought that his dad’s abandonment would destroy him. Even when as he settled in to his dorm room, to his classes, the loss of his family had been a constant ache. Dad’s words had hurt worse than Sam had previously thought possible.

He hadn’t healed until Father Ramirez had taken him under his wing, with the help of the school’s free therapists. Even then, it hadn’t fixed him, not really. Still, interacting with Dad, Sam realized just how wrecked he’d been in the first place.

Distantly, he felt Dean grabbing at him, holding him back. “Stop it. Stop it! That’s enough!”

No. It wasn’t enough. But Sam sagged back as Dean stepped between him and his father. “That means you too,” Dean said icily, his words strangely directed at Dad, rather than Sam. Huh.

The tension was too much. Sam dove back into the Impala, allowing the smells of gas and leather and old takeout to overtake his senses, familiar and soothing.

Dean directed an icy glare at Sam as he slid into the passenger’s seat, but Sam wasn’t sorry.

0o0o0o0o0

Almost everything they hunted was best killed at night. Intellectually, Sam knew that it made sense to kill vampires – God, the idea was strange – in the daytime, but something about the sun overhead made him uneasy. It wasn’t what he was used to. Neither was Dad’s plan to just walk right into the nest.

“So,” John said as they gathered their weapons. “You boys really wanna know about this colt?”

Sam paused, his hands clenched around his preferred machete. Beside, him, Dean had gone still. “Yes sir,” Sam said finally, breaking the silence.

John looked into the distance. “It’s just a story. A legend, really,” he said, his voice softer than Sam could ever remember it being. “Well. I thought it was,” he said, an addendum. “Never really believed it, until I read Daniel’s letter.”

Sam’s throat was dry as John told the story of Samuel Colt making his gun, his gun with 13 bullets, with half the bullets left. A gun that could kill anything.

Dean spoke, finally. “Kill anything, like, supernatural anything?” he asked, his voice raw and sandy.

Sam couldn’t take his eyes off his father. “Like the demon,” he said, watching his father’s reaction.

“Yeah,” Dad said, his gaze distant. “The demon.”

0o0o0o0o0

 _For future reference,_ Sam thought to himself as he ran from the vampire girl he had freed, _make sure the victim is actually a victim._ He burst out of the derelict building, Dean hot on his heels. The girl – she had to be newly turned – hissed and didn’t follow.

They turned around shortly after hitting the tree line, nearly in unison – they had hunted together enough to know what the other would do, Sam thought. He scanned the trees in front of him, the yard and entrance of the old building. Where was –

“Dad!” Dean shouted. “DAD!”

A tree branch snapped, and John Winchester sprinted at them from the side, panting. Sam sagged with relief; it was bad enough that he’d screwed up, but he would never forgive himself if he got his father killed.

“They won’t follow,” Dad said, breathing hard as he slowed to a walk. “They’ll wait ‘til tonight. Once a vampire gets your scent, it’s for life,” he said warningly.

Something crumpled in Sam’s chest. This was entirely his fault. If he just hadn’t assumed that the girl was human!

“Well, what the hell do we do now?” Dean demanded.

“You’ve got to find the nearest funeral home, that’s what.”

Sam blinked, his father’s words breaking through the haze of guilt and self-loathing that was already descending into his thoughts. “Why?” he asked finally.

“Because,” John said, matter-of-fact, “we need blood.”

0o0o0o0o0

Sam stayed back with Dad while Dean went to get the blood. Every fiber in his body screamed at him to help his brother, but Dad had given his _infallible_ orders.

Sam knelt in a corner and fingered his worn rosary beads. Dad gave him a strange look, but said nothing. Sam took a deep breath and clutched the first bead. “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee,” he whispered. “Bless’d art thou among women, and bless’d is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death, Amen.” _Pray for Dean._

He made it through the entire rosary, and Dean still hadn’t returned. Sam rose, glancing out the window as though the dim night view would provide answers.

“You should eat something, you know” Dad said quietly. “Don’t think I didn’t notice you only picked at your dinner. You can’t pass out on this hunt.”

He knew that Dad was right, even though his stomach churned and roiled, worse for every minute that Dean was gone. “I’ll have a power bar before we leave,” he said, not looking at his father.

“Hmm,” John said. “I see.”

The room was silent for several minutes before John spoke again. “When’d you get religious?” he asked curiously.

Sam bit back a laugh. He’d always had faith, if that’s what Dad meant. “Started going to Church my freshman year at Stanford. I got baptized as a Catholic nine months later.”

A sad smile crossed his dad’s face. “Your mom had you baptized as a Lutheran,” he said quietly. “She didn’t go to church much, but she believed in God.” He shook his head. “It gave her comfort, at least. And I hope there is a heaven, because –” John’s voice broke, and he swallowed hard. “– If anyone deserved heaven, it was your mother,” he croaked.

Clearly, spit had gotten lodged in his throat, because there was a curious lump when Sam swallowed. “I’m sure she’s there,” he said. Did ghosts go to heaven? Missouri had said that his mother destroyed herself to take down the poltergeist, but souls couldn’t be destroyed, right?  They were called immortal souls for a reason, weren’t they? Surely Mom’s assault on the poltergeist had ended with her soul in heaven, safe and happy and cradled by God himself.

Dad didn’t reply, so Sam pulled out his rosary again and prayed. _Hail Mary, full of grace…_ After he had completed each bead, he stood. “It shouldn’t be taking this long,” he said, agitated. “I should go help.” And what if the vampires had tracked Dean down? What if he was back in their nest, tied to that pole? What if they turned him? What if he was –

No. Dean was fine.

“Dean’s got it,” Dad said, not looking up from his papers.

Dad was probably right. Still, Sam paced, nervous energy thrumming through his body.

He was going to throw up. Damnit, he hadn’t eaten since dinner last night, when he’d had almost his entire salad, and he was _still_ going to throw up. And vomiting bile wasn’t pleasant. Sam swallowed rapidly until excess saliva stopped welling up in his mouth.

“Sammy.” The use of his nickname startled him enough that he stopped him in his tracks. He stared at his father.

“Yeah?” he asked warily.

John sighed and looked down, fidgeting. “I don’t think I ever told you this,” he said, “but the day you were born, know what I did?”

 _Named me, and held Mom’s hand, and took care of Dean while Mom and I were in the hospital?_ “No,” Sam said aloud.

“I put 100 bucks into a savings account for you,” John said, and his face twisted with a sad, bitter smile. “I did the same thing for your brother.” He looked down, and sighed. “It was a college fund,” he said.

Sam felt strangely dizzy. He’d always known that when he was born, Dad didn’t intend for them to be hunters, but it was an abstract fact. A college fund, though – he had never considered that it existed. The way Dad had sneered at his decision to go to college, he had always assumed that his father had never expected he would go. That Dad thought he’d join the military, or take up some sort of manual trade, like John had.

_“If you want to leave, you can damn well get the hell out and stay the hell out!”_

_“Please, Dad, don’t. I don’t –”_

_“You made your choice, Sam. Get the hell out of this room.”_

_“Dean. Dean, you don’t –”_

_“You heard Dad, Sammy. At least until he cools off.”_

_“If you walk out this door, Sam, don’t you ever come back!”_

“And every month,” Dad said, looking up and flashing a broken, empty smile, “I’d put in another hundred dollars. Until…” he trailed off.

 _Until your Mom burned,_ Sam thought, filling in the blanks.

“Anyway. My point is, Sam, this is never the life that I wanted for you.” Dad met his eyes, his smile flickering, his gaze filled with pain.

But… It didn’t make any sense. Dad had been _furious_ when he went to college. “Then why did you get so mad when I left?” he asked, trying to not sound like a broken child. That he felt like one, he would keep to himself.

John shook his head. “You’ve gotta understand something,” he said raspily. “After your mother passed, all I saw was evil. Everywhere.” He looked down. “And all I cared about was keeping you boys alive.” He glanced up slightly. “I wanted you prepared. Ready. So, somewhere along the line, I…” he trailed off, staring a the table. “I stopped being your father,” he said finally. “And I became your drill sergeant.”

_If you put your homework before training again, I’ll work you to the bone this weekend, Sam. Stop that sniveling, you won’t beat your brother in sparring if you’re crying!_

He couldn’t hold that against Dad. It wasn’t like the man had beat them. He had trained them up, that was all.

“So when you said you wanted to go away to school,” John said, “all I could think about – my only thought – was that you were gonna be alone. Vulnerable. Sammy, it – it just never occurred to me, what you wanted.”

_I didn’t have to be alone. You could’ve kept in touch._

“I just couldn’t accept the fact,” John continued, “that you and me – we’re just different.”

Sam huffed out a laugh.

“What?” John asked.

In a way, it was a bitter truth. “We’re not different,” he said quietly. In a way, despite his best efforts, he was his father. “Not anymore,” he added, and he thought about Jessica, burning on the ceiling.

He and his dad had more in common than he could have ever imagined.

Dad spent the college fund on ammo. When Sam heard his dad say it, he had to fight not to laugh. And then, he failed that fight.

0o0o0o0o0

When Dad shot the lead vampire with the colt, Sam’s first thought was that they had one less shot at killing the demon.

_~Salvation~_

The amount of lore that Dad had accumulated on demons was stunning. Salt and holy water and exorcisms, they knew. Sigils that could trap a demon were less familiar. Black eyes, they knew. Yellow eyes – that sounded like a myth. Demons as defined by Christian lore needed to possess human bodies, while other demons could exist on their own – that was old hat. The smell of sulfur accompanying demons – that was new. The knowledge that only low-level demons would succumb to the word “Christo” was an unexpected blow, and from the look in John’s eyes, that knowledge was hard-won.

For some reason, the tidbit about sulfur wouldn’t leave Sam alone.

Sam could almost forgive Dad for disappearing on them, knowing that he was going after the demon. His throat closed when his dad mentioned the demon’s appearance in California. That must have been when Jess – He couldn’t think about that. Sam ran his fingers over the cross on his rosary, and prayed for strength.

“–it’s going after families. Just like it went after us.”

Sam felt like he had been punched. “Families with infants?” he asked sharply. So, not Jess. Maybe something else had killed Jess.

Or maybe the demon had stopped by personally, a second “fuck you” to the Winchester family. Sam wasn’t sure which truth would be worse.

“Yeah,” John said, his voice flat. “The night of the kid’s sixth month birthday.”

Now that Sam thought of it, every November 2nd that he could remember, Dad had gotten drunk. Didn’t matter if he was in the middle of a hunt or not, he spent the day plastered out of his mind. Hell, sometimes he started the night before and spent the entire day in a drunken haze, stopping only to pass out, drinking again as soon as he woke up. When Sam was 13, Dean had tried to hide the bottle, and Dad had ripped the motel room apart, alternately screaming obscenities and sobbing.

The air in the room was unusually thin, Sam noted distantly. “I was six months old that night?” he asked, feeling strangely detached from his body. It made sense, he realized in the abstract. Sure, Dad had gotten drunk almost more nights than he hadn’t, and a bottle of whiskey never made it a full week in their hotel rooms, but now that Sam thought about it, November 2nd and his mom’s birthday were the worst nights for John’s drinking.

“Exactly six months,” John confirmed.

Mom had died on November 2nd, 1983. Sam had only known before that she died when he was a baby. Having a date to match that knowledge meant something, something that he couldn’t put his finger on.

“So, basically, this demon is going after these kids, for some reason,” he said. “Same way it came for me?”

 _“Maybe it was after us, for some reason,”_ he’d said to Dean after the ordeal with Max, an eternity ago.

Dad looked away. A mix of fury and guilt welled up in Sam’s chest, and it was hard to breathe. “So, Mom’s death, Jessica – it’s all ‘cause of me?” A part of Sam, the part that didn’t feel quite connected to his body right now, thought that he might cry if he thought about it too hard. He gripped the rosary between his thumb and forefinger, tight enough that one of the plastic beads gave, denting in the middle. He regretted it immediately, and released his grip on the mangled bead.

“We don’t know that, Sam,” Dean began.

“Oh, really?” Sam shouted, straightening and fixing his brother with a glare. “’Cause I’d say we’re pretty damn sure, Dean!”

“For the last time,” Dean snapped, pivoting to meet Sam’s eyes, “what happened to them is not your fault!”

Dean didn’t get it. He didn’t have to live with the guilt, with the crushing knowledge that if he had never been born, Mom and Jess would still be alive. “Yeah, you’re right!” he yelled. “It’s not my fault, but it is my problem!” He never asked to be born, never asked to be targeted by the demon – so yeah, it wasn’t his fault. It didn’t change the fact that people were dead because of him.

“No!” Dean shouted back. “It’s not your problem, it’s _our_ problem!”

“Okay, that’s enough,” John said, standing up and effectively cutting them both off.

Dad might not know what the demon wanted, but at least he was only one step behind it. Sam felt leagues behind it, struggling to swim through its powerful wake, lost. He had no idea what to do next.

Cattle deaths, temperature fluctuations, electrical storms. They could track demons, using those as patterns. Good to know. It was less pleasant to know that these things happened in Lawrence before Mom died. The disconnected part of Sam laughed at the idea of cows in Lawrence. They’d lived in suburbia, but they’d been so close to farms that a rash of cattle deaths made the news? That was weird.

Then Dad confirmed that the same omens had appeared in Palo Alto. For a moment, Sam struggled to remain upright. _What if I had known?_ He wondered distantly. Between the dreams that he now knew to be visions, and the omens, he probably would have made Dean wait with him before looking for Dad, just until he knew Jess was safe. Or maybe he’d have taken her with him, would have explained the supernatural and stayed with her the whole time. Or maybe he would have found and ended the demon before it could get to her. Or maybe he just wouldn’t have _fucking_ left!

She didn’t have to die. That weirdly disconnected part of him informed him that he would have a breakdown and cry the next time he was alone. That was fair. What wasn’t fair was Jess dying when he could have saved her. She could be finished with her dual biology and art majors. She could be making the hard decision between going to med school or clawing through bad pay and entitled asshole writers to make her name as an illustrator.

She didn’t have to be ashes in a jar on her parents’ mantle and a tombstone marking the area where her body would have laid had they buried her. She should still be here, on Earth, living her life for many more decades until she died of natural causes. She didn’t have to be just a soul up in Heaven – because Sam refused to believe that God would keep such a good person from Heaven because she was agnostic.

The demon had succeeded in hurting him, and he intended to pay it back.

The signs were starting in Salvation, Iowa. Sam knew that Dean and John also intended to stop the thing, but they didn’t have his determination. This _thing_ would never hurt a family again.

0o0o0o0o0

John pulled unexpectedly off the road. Dean swore, pulling into the sparse trees that made up the non-existent shoulder of the road. Dean threw himself out of the car a fraction of a second after Dad. Sam, still surprised by the unexpected stop, took a moment longer to extricate himself from his seatbelt and follow his brother from the car.

“Son of a bitch!” Dad shouted.

“What is it?” Dean demanded furiously. Sam closed the car door quietly, watching the scene with wide eyes.

“I just got a call from Caleb,” Dad said angrily.

Sam stiffened; his brother froze. “Is he okay?” Dean demanded.

“He’s fine,” John said tersely. “Jim Murphy’s dead.”

The ground was normally more solid than this, wasn’t it? Remaining upright wasn’t usually such a challenge. Pastor Jim had been the first religious man that Sam had ever met, and damn if he hadn’t made an impression. He was Lutheran, not Catholic, but Sam had hardly met a soul more devout than him. Or, if he was being honest, he had never met a soul more caring. He had housed Sam and Dean multiple times during their dad’s longer hunts. One time, Dad had taken the boys to him after two days in the car with no food – _I don’t have money, Jim, but I’ll pay you back, please just feed the boys, they’re starving_ – and Jim had put them up for two weeks, feeding Sam and Dean until they were back to proper health, nursing John back to strength, and even refilling the gas in his car.

He might not have been Catholic, but Pastor Jim had been a true man of God. It was hard to breathe, knowing that he was dead.

“Pastor Jim?” he asked emptily, just to confirm. It wasn’t like they knew another Jim Murphy. “How?”

“Throat was slashed,” John said tightly. “He bled out.”

Somehow, Sam knew, he just _knew_ , that it was connected to the demon.

0o0o0o0o0

Static. The world seemed to change around him. Pain spiked through his head, but he saw a baby, too young even to sit up, and a woman, looking around with wide eyes. A music box played in the background, and something moved though the curtain. Outside the window, a train sounded.

A train. He could work with this. Especially as images fluttered behind his eyes, even as he was awake and aware.

God, his head was going to split open.

He stared around wildly, his eyes landing on a woman. A… familiar woman? She looked like the mother from his vision, and he shuddered minutely. He crossed the road, coming up next to the woman. “Hi,” he said softly. “Here, let me hold that,” he said, gesturing to her jacket.

“Oh!” The woman seemed surprised, but she smiled at him. “Thanks,” she said, raising the umbrella to cover her stroller.

The baby in the stroller looked about six months old. Sam fought back bile. “She’s gorgeous. Is she yours?” he asked the woman.

“Yeah,” the woman said, laughing slightly.

“Ah, wow,” Sam said, looking back at the baby. “Hi!” he said, forcing himself to sound cheerful for the little girl. _I’ll save you._ But now, he had to be polite, had to keep from scaring this young mother. “I’m sorry, I’m rude. I’m Sam. I just moved in up the block,” he lied.

“Oh, hey!” the woman said, her shoulders relaxing noticeably. “I’m Monica!”

“Monica?” Sam asked to confirm.

“And this is Rosie,” Monica said, gesturing towards her infant. “So, welcome to the neighborhood!”

He hoped that Rosie would grow up innocent enough to welcome in the neighbors like this, that she wouldn’t grow up terrified of things in the dark, distrusting nearly everyone she met, just to be safe. “Thank you!” he said out loud. “She’s such a good baby!”

“I know!” Monica said, beaming. “I mean, she – she never cries. She just stares at everybody.” Monica chuckled, and Sam felt something sink in his gut.

“Sometimes she looks at you, and I swear – it’s like she’s reading your mind.”

A baby that didn’t cry wasn’t a good thing. Sam knew. Crying was how babies let you knew they weren’t getting their needs met.

“What about you, Monica?” Sam asked. “Have you lived here long?”

Monica chuckled. “My husband and I, we bought a place just before Rosie was born,” she said, gesturing at the innocuous house behind her.

“How old is Rosie?” Sam asked. He sounded casual, he thought. Good.

“She’s six months today,” Monica said, beaming. Sam hoped that his face didn’t drain of color at her words.

“It’s big, right?” Monica asked, gesturing towards the stroller. “She’s growing like a weed.”

“Yeah,” Sam forced out shakily.

0o0o0o0o0

His headache came on suddenly, unexpectedly. A ticking clock, a music box, a close-up on a clown mobile _(why)._ Midnight exactly, and a shadow appeared over Rosie’s crib, and Monica was  thrown backwards and dragged up the wall over Rosie’s crib until she lay flat on the ceiling, screaming even before she was consumed by flames.

0o0o0o0o0

Dad was skeptical of his visions. Maybe Sam should have anticipated this – but then, Dad had always disregarded his thoughts. Why would some supernatural visions change this?

“It started out as nightmares,” Dean said, rising. A part of Sam was surprised that Dean was defending him. “Then he started having them while he was awake.”

It was nice to know that Dean was on his side, even as he revealed himself as a freak.

“Yeah,” Sam said quietly, clutching his pounding head. God, his skull felt ready to split. “It’s like – I dunno, it’s like the closer I get to anything involving the demon, the stronger the visions get.”

 “All right,” John said finally, dropping his hands and glaring. “When were you gonna tell me about this?” he demanded.

Dean glared at their father. “We didn’t know what it meant.”

“All right,” John said angrily. “Something like this starts happening to your brother, you pick up the phone and you call me!”

Dean stiffened, and Sam lowered his brow to his fingertips, massaging his temples as his head pounded. Great. A fight would only make his headache worse.

“Call you?” Dean demanded. “Are you kidding me?”

Dad didn’t say a word. “Dad, I called you from Lawrence, all right?” Dean said, his angry voice trembling. “Sam called you when I was _dying._ Getting you on the phone – I got a better chance of winning the lottery!”

Dad dropped his gaze. “You’re right,” he said quietly. Sam gaped, shocked by his father’s words. “Although I’m not crazy about this new tone of yours, you’re right. I’m sorry.” John added. Sam shook his head and considered an exorcism – Dad _never_ backed down that easy.

It was beside the point. “Look, guys,” he said, “visions or no visions, we know the demon is coming tonight.” They couldn’t get distracted. This was too big. “And, this family’s going to go through the same hell that we went through.” Monica, burning on the ceiling. Rosie, left alone with a grieving single father, and maybe he would turn out like John or maybe he would turn out like Mr. Miller.

“No, they’re not,” John said, an edge of righteous anger to his voice. “No one is – ever again.”

Dad’s cell phone rang, effectively cutting him off before he could say anything else. Sam picked up the phone – it was nearest to him, and he knew Dad wouldn’t mind – and held it to his still-ringing ear. “Hello?”

 _“Sam?”_ Sam went rigid as his blood turned to ice. He knew that voice. “Who is this?” he asked, his voice surprisingly steady as he struggled to stay in the present. His cheek throbbed with phantom pain. It couldn’t be her. She was dead.

 _“Think real hard. It will come to you,”_ Meg said, her voice somehow simultaneously sultry and cruel.

Sam took a deep breath. “Meg,” he said, and his hands began to shake. “Last time I saw you, you fell out of a window.”

 _“Oh, yeah, thanks to you,”_ Meg said playfully. Sam struggled to breathe, because how was she even alive? _“That really hurt my feelings, by the way.”_

It should have hurt her spine a lot more than her feelings, Sam thought angrily. “Just your feelings?” he spat. “That was a seven-story drop!”

Meg exhaled. _“Let me speak to your dad,”_ she ordered.

Sam’s eyes widened as he looked at his father. “My dad? I don’t know where my dad is,” he said faintly.

Meg’s voice abruptly lost all its playfulness. _“It’s time for the grown-ups to talk, Sam. Let me speak to him,_ now. _”_

Dad met Sam’s eyes, nodded slightly, and held out his hand for the phone. Slowly, Sam passed it over. “This is John.”

Sam reminded himself to breathe, because passing out right now would be a very bad idea. If Meg was alive, that meant she couldn’t be human. And yeah, she was tracking Dad, but she just happened to show up now? The demons she’d been involved with were Zoroastrian demons that required summoning, not the standard Christian-based demons like the one they were chasing. Did she think she could get her hands on this demon before they killed it?

A moment passed before Dad stopped in his tracks and cast his eyes downward. “I’m here,” he said, his voice rough.

Dad stood unnaturally still. “Caleb?” he said after another long pause, a note of panic in his voice. Sam looked over sharply. Caleb? That was one of Dad’s friends – not someone Sam knew terribly well, but a familiar face, a trusted hunter. “Caleb!” he shouted.

Barely a second passed before Dad spoke again, his voice low and dangerous. “You listen to me,” he growled. “He’s got nothing to do with anything. You – let him go.”

Silence, and Dad looked down again. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Would it kill Dad to put the damn phone on speaker? Sam chewed nervously at the inside of his lip, staring at Dad as though if he focused enough, he could hear Meg’s voice through the phone. Beside him, Dean stood taut as a wire, ready to leap into action at the slightest order, or hint of trouble.

“Caleb,” John gasped, his shoulders going slack. His voice said everything, Sam thought, his chest tight. No way Caleb was still alive. “Caleb!”

Dad turned to face the window, moving with slow, heavy steps. “I’m gonna kill you, you know that?” he growled. He swiped a hand across his face, then shook his head. “Okay,” he said quietly, and God, was that _defeat_ in his voice?

A pause. “I said okay,” John said, his voice hollow. “I’ll bring you the colt.”

Sam’s thoughts stuttered to a halt. _What?_ Dad couldn’t possibly – and how did she know – and there was no way –

 _Please, God, don’t let me be sick._ Sam stared disbelievingly at his father, struggling to see the man he knew beneath this broken face.

“It’s gonna take me about a day’s drive to get there,” Dad said, his face devoid of emotion. He twitched at whatever Meg said next. “That’s impossible. I can’t get there in time, and I can’t just carry a gun on a plane.” He closed his eyes and sagged even further.

“Well,” Dad said as he hung up his phone, “we know one thing. Demon’s got backup.”

“Yeah, some skinny little would-be witch. We can take her,” Dean said, though his voice lacked confidence.

Dad shook his head. “No, she’s not a witch,” he said. “Witches know better than to get mixed up in this kind of mess. I think we’re looking at another demon.”

“What?” Dean demanded.

Sam rose from his chair, suddenly filled with the urge to move. He paced for a minute, then looked at his father. “So, you think Meg is a demon?”

Dad nodded. “Either that, or she’s possessed by one,” he said. “It doesn’t really matter.”

Meg smelled like sulfur, Sam remembered suddenly. It had been subtle, underneath her strong shampoo and perfume, but he had noticed it when she hugged him. It also explained how she had survived that fall.

“What do we do?” Dean demanded.

“I’m going to Lincoln,” Dad said, using his “don’t argue with me” tone.

“What?” Dean demanded.

“It doesn’t seem like I have a choice. If I don’t go, a lot of people die. Our friends die.”

Well, since when had Sam ever paid heed to the “don’t argue with me” tone? “Dad, the demon is coming _tonight_ for Monica and her family. That gun is all we got!” he said. They could deal with Meg after that. Or, hell, if she was some sort of lieutenant to this boss demon, maybe she’d flee when they killed him. “You can’t just hand it over!”

John met his eyes, and his lips twitched as though he wanted to smirk, but was too tired. “Who said anything about handing it over?” he asked. “Look, besides us and a couple vampires, no one’s really seen the gun. No one knows what it looks like.”

Oh. _Oh._ A wave of relief slammed through Sam. Dad had been playing at defeat, that’s all. Thank God.

“So, what, you’re just gonna pick up a ringer at a pawn shop?” Dean demanded.

John shrugged. “Antique store,” he said.

Dean stared at their father, clearly unconvinced. “You’re gonna hand Meg a fake gun and hope she doesn’t notice?”

“Look, as long as it’s close, she shouldn’t be able to tell the difference,” Dad said.

“Yeah, but for how long?” Dean demanded angrily. “What happens when she figures it out?”

John shook his head. “I just – I just need to buy a few hours. That’s all.”

Sam swallowed hard as his father’s words hit him. “You mean for Dean and me,” he said quietly. So they could protect Monica, and Rosie. “You want us to stay here, and kill this demon by ourselves.” He’d already been having trouble breathing. He was already fighting back the urge to vomit. The blood in his veins already felt like ice. This was something different – Sam couldn’t place the sense of _wrong_ that he felt, but it was overwhelming, and a distant part of him was surprised that he was still upright.

“No, Sam,” John said, an edge to his voice. “I want to stop losing the people we love. I want you to go to school, I want Dean to have a home.” He turned away, as though his words hadn’t already burned Sam. He turned and stared at the wall. “I want Mary alive,” he said, his words cracking with pain. “I just… I just want this to be over.”

Sam swallowed hard and looked at Dean. A part of him was indignant that Dad would dare to say that he wanted him to go to school, after everything. But mostly it was just sad to see his father caught up in grief and longing and the loss of his wife, the woman that Sam had never known.

0o0o0o0o0

They provided Dad with a fake gun. John promised that he would be okay, that he would prioritize his life, and Sam believed him. Sam watched as Dean took the colt, with its four remaining bullets. How strange, that they could possibly kill the demon tonight.

The train whistle blew, and Sam thought of Monica and Rosie.

0o0o0o0o0

Hanging outside Monica’s house felt sketchy. “Maybe we can tell them there’s a gas leak,” Sam suggested. “Might get them out of the house for a few hours.”

“Yeah, and how many times has that actually worked for us?” Dean asked, throwing a sardonic look at Sam.

Sam shrugged minutely. “Yeah,” he said. “Could always tell them the truth.” Who wouldn’t appreciate some guy they met for thirty seconds showing up at their house in the middle of the night, babbling about demons?

The derisive look Dean gave him spoke for itself. Sam kept a straight face for a full second before cracking up. “Nah!” he said, laughing, in unison with Dean.

His laughter tapering off, Sam shook his head and smiled wryly. “I know,” he said. “I know, I know, I just…” He trailed off. He wished he _could_ warn them, could salt the windows and doorframes and wait with the colt in his hand right outside Rosie’s crib. “With what’s coming for these people –”

“Sam, we’ve only got one move and you know it, all right?” Dean interrupted. “We gotta wait for that demon to show itself, and then we get it before it gets them.”

They both would feel better if Dad were here, or if they were with Dad. Sam could see in his brother’s face the itch to turn the car around, to hightail it after Dad, to back him up in his fight. Sam just wished that Dad was here – he would feel better with the backup.

 _We’ll be okay,_ he told himself. When had he or Dean ever failed to come through for the other? From the incident with the scarecrow, to Sam’s kidnapping by those sick hillbillies, they’d always gotten through it. This was bigger than anything they’d ever faced, but they could take this demon. They’d kick its ass.

“Dean, uh,” he began spontaneously, “I want to thank you.”

Dean looked at him, uncomprehending. “For… What?” he asked.

Sam bit back a laugh and shook his head. “For everything,” he said. For raising him, for standing by him, for trusting him. “You’ve always had my back, you know? Even when I couldn’t count on anyone, I could always count on you.”

Dean looked like he wanted to say anything – probably something along the lines of _what have I always said about chick-flick moments, Sammy?_ Sam plowed ahead anyways. “And now… I dunno, I just wanted to let you know, just in case.”

It was the closest way he could think of to say ‘I love you’ that didn’t use those exact words. And Winchesters didn’t tell each other they loved them, they showed it. Even if it was just with a sappy speech.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, are you _kidding_ me?” Dean snapped, his face screwed up with disbelief.

Not exactly the reaction Sam had expected. “What?”

“Don’t say, just in case something happens to you!” Dean said furiously. “I don’t wanna hear that freakin’ speech, man! Nobody’s dying tonight! Not us, not that family, nobody! Except that demon!” He glared at Sam, his jaw clenched with determination. “That evil son of a bitch isn’t getting any older than tonight, you understand me?””

Something twisted in Sam’s chest. He nodded slowly, took a deep breath, and absently ran his fingers across the beads of his rosary, skipping over the one damaged bead. Dean had his back, and he needed to have Dean’s. They were going to get through this. They were going to kick it in the ass.

0o0o0o0o0

They waited an hour after all the lights flicked off before picking the lock and making their way into the house. Then, the radio began to fizz out. The lights started flickering across the board. It looked normal, like innocuous suburbia during a power outage. “It’s coming,” Sam breathed, throwing himself from the car and running towards the building. They entered the house quietly, Sam holding his breath and breathing shallowly when necessary.

“Get out of my house!” Sam leapt back as the husband rushed at him with a lamp. “Get out of my hou–”

“Mr. Holt, please!” Sam shouted, pinning the man to the wall. Shit. The family was supposed to be asleep!

“Be quiet and listen to me.” Dean was in his face, his voice simultaneously soothing and urgent. “Be quiet and listen to me. We are trying to help you, okay?”

“Charlie?” That was Monica. “Is everything okay down there?!”

“MONICA, GET THE BABY!” Charlie screamed. _Shit._

No. No, no, no. “Don’t go in the nursery!” Sam shouted.

Dean fought with Charlie while Sam ran upstairs and ran into the nursery. In the dark, a shadowy figure stood, holding a hand up as Monica slid up the ceiling. Sam barely felt the terror underneath the adrenaline coursing through his veins. Yellow eyes flashed before him, sickeningly vibrant. Sam gritted his teeth, aimed the colt and pulled the trigger. The entity disappeared before the bullet made contact, and Monica fell to the ground with a loud shriek.

“Where the hell did it go?!” Sam demanded, looking wildly around the room. He didn’t see smoke, or any sign of a demon.

“My baby!” Monica wailed hysterically, thrashing wildly as she struggled to stand.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Sam soothed, helping her to her feet.

“Go, get out of here! I got it!” Dean shouted as he shot past Sam and Monica, making a beeline for Rosie.

“My _baby!_ ” Monica shrieked as Sam manhandled her towards the door. She thrashed and struggled wildly; Sam winced as her nails bit into his skin.

“Dean’s got her! Come on!” he urged, half-carrying her down the stairs. Light flared behind him, and flickering shadows danced on the wall across from them as the crib began to burn.

0o0o0o0o0

The demon was still inside. Even before its silhouette appeared in the window, Sam could feel it. It was ancient, and evil, and familiar in some horrifying way. Something in Sam’s body seemed to pulse with recognition, stronger the closer he was to the thing.

The shadow of a man at the window was all the confirmation that Sam needed. “It’s still in there,” he growled, tightening his grip on the gun and shifting, preparing to break into a run. A cloud of rage descended across his mind. This demon had killed his mom, had killed Jess, had almost killed this perfectly nice lady – and for _what?_ He snarled and took a step towards the burning house.

Dean grabbed his arm before he could even start to run. “Sam, no!” he cried, his voice thick with fear.

“Dean, let me go!” Sam shouted, struggling desperately. His brother’s grip tightened painfully, and Sam felt himself being dragged backwards. “It’s still in there!” he screamed. It was there, and if he didn’t kill it, it was going to kill again, and he couldn’t let that happen, he couldn’t. But Dean’s grip was tight enough to bruise, and he could feel his brother’s fingernails through his jacket, and he was being pulled farther away, as if this was something they could just walk away from.

“It’s burning to the ground!” Dean shouted, spinning around and planting himself between Sam and the door. “It’s suicide!”

White-hot fury, only partially aimed at his brother, nearly eclipsed Sam’s vision. “I don’t care!” he roared, because didn’t Dean get it? This, their entire lives, it was his fault. His fault, because the demon came for him, for some reason. And he needed to _end_ it!

“I DO!” Dean screamed. Something about the raw, animal desperation in Dean’s voice broke through the haze. He took a step back and stared at the house, but made no attempt to move forward. Could he hit it from outside? It was in the damn _window,_ after all.

They didn’t have enough bullets left to risk it. Sam stared, and the shadow seemed to meet his eyes. It nodded once, and then it was walking away.

They’d lost it.

0o0o0o0o0

“If you had just let me go in there, I could have ended all this.”

Sam could feel Dean’s eyes on him, but he made no move to look back. Listlessly, he fingered his rosary, too tired even to pray. He’d failed. He’d had a shot, and he failed.

And where was God, he wondered bitterly, when Sam needed him? Where was God when Sam had a chance to take out the evilest thing he had ever heard of? Hell, where had God been when Mary Winchester burned alive on the ceiling, more than 22 years ago?

Distantly, he realized he would probably have to confess this blasphemy and lack of faith the next time he went to confession. For now, Sam couldn’t bring himself to care. He wanted his moment of anger and hatred and doubt.

“Sam,” Dean said quietly, walking towards him. “The only thing you would have ended is your life.”

Small price to pay, Sam thought bitterly. Seemed like his life brought more suffering and pain to his loved ones than it was worth. He’d rather have not been born at all. “You don’t know that,” he said instead, glancing at his brother.

“So, what? You’re just willing to sacrifice yourself, is that it?” Dean’s voice shook. It didn’t sound like anger.

Dean really didn’t get it. “Yeah,” Sam said flatly, rising from the bed. He didn’t mind taking advantage of his height, and allowed himself to tower over his older brother. “Yeah, you’re damn right I am.”

“Yeah, well, that’s not gonna happen,” Dean snapped, glaring up at him. “Not as long as I’m around.” He turned away, his shoulders a tense line.

Sam would never understand his brother. “What the hell are you talking about, Dean?” he demanded angrily. “We’ve been searching for this demon our whole lives!” _And it’s my fault. Please understand, this is all my fault._ “It’s the only thing we’ve ever cared about!” he cried.

But that wasn’t true, Sam had to admit to himself. He’d cared about Stanford enough to walk away from the life. He cared about God enough to find religion. He cared about Jess so much that her loss was like a hole in his chest, eating at him, consuming him, destroying him.

But still, through that all, he’d always planned to drop everything if Dad and Dean found the thing that killed Mom. Always. It came first.

“Sam, I wanna waste it,” Dean snapped. “I do, okay? But it’s not worth _dying_ over!”

It wouldn’t be worth Dean dying to kill it, or Dad. But Sam? He wanted to laugh. It had come for him in the first place, and if he wanted to sacrifice himself to kill it, that was his decision. “What?” he asked blankly. He and Dean… really weren’t on the same page.

“I mean it!” Dean said desperately. “If hunting this demon means you getting yourself killed, then I hope we never find the damn thing!”

Sam’s eyes burned. “That thing _killed_ Jess,” he said, his voice shaking. Couldn’t Dean see that Sam had to atone for everything that had happened? “That thing killed Mom.” Which broke Dad, which broke Dean.

Dean was quiet for a moment. “You said, yourself, once, that no matter what we do, they’re gone, and they’re never coming back,” Dean finally said.

And yeah, he was right. Not Sam’s finest moment, on that bridge before Constance Welch tried to run them over. But that was before Jess. That was back when it was just Mom, and maybe he was going to Hell for thinking it, but Mom was an abstract idea to him, and Jess was a real person. Suddenly, he understood how much he had hurt Dean by saying that, as they stood on the bridge. Back while Jess was still alive. Only a day or so before she died.

Despite that hurt, Dean was willing to parrot his words back to him. Why? Why the _hell_ would he do that? Why the hell would he put Sam’s life over the demon’s future victims? Furious, Sam lunged forward and seized his unresisting brother by the lapels of his jacket. “Don’t you say that!” he shouted. “Not you! Not after all this – don’t you say that.”

Dean stared back at him with cold, unwavering eyes. “Sam, look,” he said quietly, “the three of us – that’s all we have.” His voice wavered at the end. “And it’s all I have.” Dean sounded like he might cry.

But even without Sam, Dean would have Dad. That should be enough, right? So why were Dean’s eyes glassy with unshed tears? He’d been just fine leaving Sam alone for four years, because he had Dad. He’d only come for Sam when Dad went missing, when he was finally alone – didn’t that prove that Dean could live his life just fine without Sam in it?

Still, Sam loosened his grip on his brother, his limbs beginning to tremble. He took a deep breath, swallowing past the lump in his throat.

Dean blinked rapidly, clearing unshed tears from his eyes. “Sometimes I feel like I’m barely holding it together, man,” he said roughly. “Without you and Dad…”

Something wet and sickly spread through Sam’s chest, and tears sprung unexpectedly behind his eyes. “Dad,” he whispered. A distant part of him thought that Dean had been talking about their dad while Sam was lost in his own thoughts and regrets. He released Dean and turned away, unable to stop the sudden onslaught of tears. It was ridiculous. Dad was probably fine, and even if he wasn’t, it was no reason to _cry._ Winchesters didn’t cry unless they were sloppy-drunk or someone died in front of them. “He should have called by now,” he said, wiping his eyes and turning back to face Dean. “Try him again.”

Dean picked up the phone and punched in the number, his face grave. He was silent for a moment, and then, Sam could practically see the blood drain from Dean’s face. “Where is he?” Dean asked, his voice shaking.

Sam could barely breathe. He knew what this meant – Dad had been caught.

Dean’s eyes widened, and if anything, his face went even paler, his freckles standing out against stark white. With a trembling hand, he pulled the phone away and snapped it closed.

_~Devil’s Trap~_

“They’ve got Dad,” Dean said, his voice shaking as he snapped the phone closed.

The air was too thin to breathe properly. “Meg?” Sam asked shakily. “What’d she say?”

“I just told you, Sammy,” Dean snapped. He took a deep breath. “Okay,” he said, swiping his palm over his face, wiping away tears. “Okay.”

 _Not_ okay. _Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed by thy name. Save Dad. Sorry for deviating from the normal prayer. Please save my dad._

Dean grabbed the colt and tucked it into his waistband. “What are you doing, Dean?” Sam asked warily.

“We’ve gotta go,” Dean said tersely, turning towards the door.

They hadn’t even packed up the room. “Why?” Sam demanded. How much danger was Dad in?

“Because the demon knows we’re in Salvation!” Dean shouted. “All right? It knows we’ve got the colt, it’s got Dad, and it’s probably coming for us next!”

The demon coming for them didn’t sound like a problem. “So, we kill it!” Sam said, staring at his brother. “We’ve still got three bullets left!” Even if it smoked out once, they’d get it on the rebound. “Let it –”

“Listen, tough guy!” Dean interrupted. “We’re not ready, okay? We don’t know how many of them are out there! And we’re no good to anybody dead!”

Sam hated to admit it, but Dean had a point.

“We’re leaving, _now,”_ Dean said, and his tone offered no argument. Sam supposed that there was no real _reason_ to remain in Salvation – the demon would probably find them anyways, no matter where they ran.

0o0o0o0o0

Sam’s empty stomach lurched as Dean took a corner too quickly, the car nearly skidding off the road. Dean cursed and corrected the vehicle sharply. “Sorry, Baby,” Dean murmured, patting the steering wheel. “We’ve gotta go get Dad.”

Sam glared out the windshield. Dad was probably dead already, he thought darkly, trying to keep himself from caving in at the thought. “I’m telling you, Dean, we could’ve taken them,” he groused, clenching and unclenching his fists in his lap. His chest felt weird – somehow tight and empty at the same time.

“What we need is a plan,” Dean said, ignoring Sam completely. “They’re probably keeping Dad alive. We’ve just got to figure out where. They’re gonna want to trade him for the gun.”

Well, wasn’t that just optimistic. Sam shook his head wryly. He hoped Dean wasn’t getting his hopes up that they’d get their father back.

“What?” Dean snapped, his eyes flickering towards Sam.

One of them had to keep his head on his shoulders. “If that were true, why didn’t Meg mention a trade?” he asked. He hoped he sounded gruff, and not like he was worried he might either cry or scream until his throat bled. “Dad – he might be –”

 _“Don’t,”_ Dean snapped, his voice thick with desperation.

Sam shook his head, blinking rapidly to clear his steadily blurring vision. “Look, I don’t want to believe it any more than you. But if he is, all the more reason to kill this damn thing!” This _fucking_ demon. It wasn’t for long on this earth. Sam didn’t know what happened to demons when they died – exorcism wasn’t permanent, so clearly, a dead demon couldn’t just go back to Hell – but he hoped that something terrible happened. Something worse than Hell. “We still have the colt. We can still finish the job –”

“Screw the job, Sam!” Dean shouted, accelerating sharply. Sam clenched his fists and swallowed rapidly, reacting to the sudden increase in movement.

“Dean, I’m just trying to do what he would want!” He was, he really was. The fact that Sam also wanted revenge was of minor importance, comparatively. “He would want us to keep going!”

“Would you quit talking about him like he’s dead already?” Dean demanded furiously. “Listen to me! Everything stops until we get him back, you understand me? Everything!”

Silently, Sam looked away. He wasn’t used to hearing that level of emotion in Dean’s voice. He took a deep breath. “So, how do we find him?”

0o0o0o0o0

Many things had changed since the last time Sam had seen Bobby Singer, but the old house and scrapyard were exactly the same. Bobby was darn near the same as well, though his hair was maybe a bit greyer, and the lines in his face might be deeper. It made sense – they hadn’t seen him in what, seven or eight years?

“You sellin’ something?” the grizzled hunter asked, looking blankly at them.

“Bobby, it’s us,” Dean said frowning. “Sam and Dean?”

The old man’s face was perfectly blank. “Sam and Dean?” he asked, guarded. “Winchester?”

“Yeah,” Dean said as Sam nodded. Sam swallowed hard, suddenly uncertain. Their family hadn’t ended things on the best of terms with Bobby. Maybe they should have tried someone else.

Then Bobby’s face split into a wide grin. “Aw, hell, didn’t think I’d be seeing you boys again!” he said cheerfully. “Come on in! Damn, you boys got big,” he said, stepping aside and waving them through the front door.

“Thought I heard that you were out of the game, Sam,” Bobby said as he led the way to his in-house library. “So’s this a social call, or an emergency?”

Sam took a minute to find his voice. “Sadly, it’s an emergency,” he said finally. Sam settled in at one of Bobby’s many desks and began sorting through old texts. If he had to guess, he’d say that less than half of them were actually in English. _I should have taken Latin at Stanford,_ he thought ruefully. _Or Greek._ He didn’t think the few Latin exorcisms he knew, or the two semesters of entry-level Spanish he’d taken, would help him much with these.

Bobby nodded. “Wasn’t often I saw a Winchester when it wasn’t an emergency,” he said, rummaging around to pick something up off a book-covered table. There was no malice in his voice, Sam was relieved to note. “Here you go,” Bobby said, raising two tiny silver flasks and passing one to Sam and Dean.

Sam frowned slightly Dean took it, looking wary. “What is this?” Dean asked. “Holy water?”

Bobby raised an eyebrow. “That one is,” he said, nodding agreeably. “This is whiskey,” he added, indicating his own flask. Sam bit back a laugh as Bobby took a long swallow and winked, gesturing towards the flash of holy water. It was somewhat comforting to know that the old man was as paranoid as ever.

Dean made a face, but dutifully took a sip of holy water before reaching for the flask of whiskey. “Bobby, thanks. Thanks for everything,” he said. “Tell the truth, I wasn’t sure we should come.”

“Nonsense!” Bobby said briskly. “Your daddy needs help.”

Sam snorted, and Dean shifted uncomfortably. “Yeah, well, last time we saw you, I mean, you did threaten to blast him full of buckshot,” he pointed out. “You cocked the shotgun and everything!”

Bobby shrugged. “Yeah, well, what can I say? John just has that effect on people,” he said. Sam snorted; Bobby wasn’t exactly wrong.

“I guess he does,” Dean said with a tiny smile.

One of the books caught Sam’s eye – one that was mercifully in English. He began to flip through as Bobby and Dean continued speaking. Strange rites, powerful sigils, rituals and spells the likes of which he hadn’t even known existed. He stopped on a page with a large seven-pointed star in a circle. “Bobby, this book – I’ve never seen anything like it,” he said, staring at the symbol before him.

Bobby glanced over. “Key of Solomon?” he asked, narrowing his eyes at the book. “It’s the real deal, all right.”

Sam nodded, skimming the notes near the symbol. “And these protective circles – they really work?” he asked.

“Hell yeah,” Bobby said, nodding, his brow furrowed. “You get a demon in one, they’re trapped.”

0o0o0o0o0

It would be a lie to say that Sam hadn’t been terrified when Meg came storming into Bobby’s house, all terrifying power and a presence to back it up. Even now, tied to a chair in the middle of a protective circle, her presence was overwhelming. It was like trying to contain a rocket ready for launch with a butterfly net; it couldn’t be possible.

Yet, somehow, a few lines on Bobby’s ceiling had made her helpless.

“You know,” Meg said, smirking at Sam, “if you wanted to tie me up, all you had to do was ask.”

Sam didn’t bother to acknowledge her, turning his attention instead to Bobby as the man reentered the room. “I salted all the doors and windows,” Bobby said. “If there are any demons out there, they ain’t gettin’ in.”

Sam nodded and ordered his racing heart to calm down. He stood back, allowing Dean to step forward and take the lead in the interrogation.

“Where’s our father, Meg?” Dean asked, his voice hard.

Meg looked up at him from behind bleached bangs, her well-shaped eyebrows rising. “You didn’t ask very nice,” she purred, cocking her head.

Dean didn’t miss a beat. “Where’s our father, bitch?”

Meg opened her mouth, mock-offended. “Jeez! D’you kiss your mother with that mouth?” She smirked. “Oh, I forgot. You don’t.”

“Hey! You think this is a frickin’ _game?”_ Dean roared, leaning down to glare at the demon. “Where is he? What did you do to him?!”

“He died screaming. I killed him myself,” Meg said without hesitation.

Sam’s heart dropped like a stone. He’d thought as much. He knew the demons didn’t have a reason to keep Dad alive. Hearing a confirmation, though – it didn’t seem real.

Meg shrieked as Dean struck her in the face, knocking over the chair. Sam jumped, startled, and stared with wide eyes as Meg sneered up at Dean. “That’s kind of a turn on – you hitting a girl,” she said flirtily.

“You’re no girl,” Dean growled.

Bobby shook his head and stepped forward. “Dean,” he said quietly, gesturing for both boys to follow him.

Numb, Sam followed behind his enraged brother. “She’s lying. He’s not dead!” Dean burst out.

“Dean, you’ve gotta be careful with her,” Bobby said quietly, his voice urgent. “Don’t hurt her.”

“Why?” Dean demanded.

“Because she really is a girl, that’s why!” Bobby said, throwing Dean a bemused look.

Sam frowned. That didn’t make sense. “What are you talking about?” Sam asked, stepping in closer.

“She’s possessed,” Bobby said, looking between the two of them with exasperated concern. “That’s a human possessed by a demon. Can’t you tell?”

That didn’t make sense though. Meg was some sort of Zoroastrian demon, wasn’t she? She shouldn’t need to possess a human! Unless, Sam thought, she was actually a standard Christian demon who had been working with the Daeva for some reason unknown.

Oh, God. He’d watched a human girl, guilty of nothing more than being possessed against her will, shatter on the ground after a seven-story drop. How was she even still alive? Sam felt sick. She probably wasn’t alive. The demon was probably riding around in her corpse.

Dean’s face went white. “Are you trying to tell me there’s an innocent girl trapped somewhere in there?” he demanded frantically. Sam, for his part, struggled to breathe normally. “That’s… Actually good news.”

What? On what _planet_ was that good news, Sam wondered. He couldn’t imagine how terrified that poor girl must have been, how violated she must have felt, how much pain she’d gone through. What about this situation was good?

“Sam, you got Dad’s journal?” Dean asked, his words just barely registering in Sam’s mind.

“Huh?” Sam asked, glancing at his brother.

“Dad’s journal, Sam.”

Sam swallowed hard. “Yeah, Dean,” he said quietly. “It’s in the car.”

Dean nodded. “Good,” he said. “Go get it. If that demon won’t tell us where Dad is, we’re gonna exorcise this sonofabitch, and then we’re gonna ask that girl what she knows about Dad.”

Sam frowned. “Dean, I don’t think that’s wise,” he began. Even if the girl was alive, she couldn’t possibly be in any condition to speak.

“If you’ve got a better plan, hotshot, tell me now,” Dean said, folding his arms across his chest and raising an eyebrow.

Sam didn’t have a better plan. With a sigh, he turned on the ball of his foot and stalked out to the car.

0o0o0o0o0

“A building!” Meg screamed. “A building in Jefferson city, okay!”

“Missouri?” Dean demanded furiously. “Where? _Where?_ An address!”

Meg shook her head. “I don’t know!” she snapped angrily, glaring up at Dean. From where Sam stood, the demon looked almost afraid.

“And the demon – the one we’re looking for – where is it?” Sam demanded, stepping closer.

“I don’t _know,”_ Meg repeated angrily, panting. “I swear! That’s everything! That’s all I know.”

Sam stood, frozen, as Meg gasped and wheezed. Was she telling the truth? Surely she wasn’t. She had to know more than that! Jefferson was too big a city to search!

“Finish it,” Dean said, his voice empty.

It took a moment for Dean’s words to register. Sam turned back to the journal.

 _“What?”_ Meg raged. “I told you the truth!”

“Awww, I don’t _care,”_ Dean said mockingly.

“You son of a bitch, you _promised!”_ Meg shouted.

“I LIED!” Dean leaned forward, his forehead nearly touching hers, as he glared with rage and pain. “Sam?” he said, his voice strangely quiet. “Sam! Read!”

Sam swallowed hard, his mouth strangely dry, and shook his head. “We can still use her,” he said quietly. He carefully didn’t look at the demon, or rather, at the girl the demon rode. “Find out where the demon is.”

Dean scoffed. “She doesn’t know!” he snapped.

“She lied!”

“Sam, there’s an innocent girl trapped somewhere in there,” Dean said forcefully. “We’ve gotta help her.”

She was probably beyond help, Sam thought, annoyed.

“You’re gonna kill her,” Bobby said, echoing Sam’s thoughts.

“What?” Dean snapped.

“You said she fell from a building,” Bobby said patiently. “That girl’s body is broken. The only thing keeping her alive is that demon inside. You exorcise it? The girl is gonna die.”

Sam shuddered, his skin crawling. If he had to have a demon running around wearing his meat, he’d at least like to be dead first. Possession was the ultimate kind of violation, he thought to himself.

“Listen to me, both of you!” Dean hissed, glaring. “We are _not_ gonna leave her like – that!”

“She is a human being!” Bobby snapped.

“And we’re gonna put her out of her misery!” Dean cried angrily.

Sam swallowed hard. He’d rather die than be possessed by a demon, that much was true. But the demon was of much more use to them here where they could use and interrogate it.

“Sam. Finish it,” Dean ordered.

Dean was right, Sam realized. With a heavy heart, he looked over at the girl, sagging in her bonds, the demon too weak to keep her body up.

 _“Finish_ it,” Dean urged.

Sam exhaled raggedly and glanced at the journal. “Dominicos, sanctae ecclesiae. Terogamus, audi nos!” Meg screamed, and the chair jerked wildly across the circle as she thrashed in her bonds. “Terribilis Deus de sanctuaruio suo Deus Israhel! Ipse tribuite virtutem et fortitudinem plebi suae, Benedictus Deus, Gloria Patri!”

The girl’s head snapped back with a scream, and black smoke poured in a terrifying column from her lips. Sam struggled to breathe as the incorporeal form of the demon was expunged from the girl, battering against the confines of the circle before dissipating, banished back to Hell.

The girl, the real Meg Masters, slumped forward suddenly, blood dripping from her mouth. Sam stood, frozen, staring at the small, broken girl. In the back of his mind, he wondered who she’d been before she was possessed. He didn’t think she was breathing.

Then, suddenly, she wheezed slightly, laboriously dragging her head up a few inches. She panted, her eyes glassy and vacant as she stared at nothing, groaning.

“She’s still alive,” Dean breathed. “Uh, call 911! Get some water and blankets!”

 Bobby leapt into motion. Sam forced himself to move, to follow his brother towards the girl as she choked, her hands weakly gripping the arms of Bobby’s old chair.

“Thank you,” Meg whispered, her broken voice entirely different from the light, flirty tone the demon had preferred. For all that she couldn’t be a day over 25, she sounded ancient, ravaged by time and abuse.

Sam couldn’t bear it, the heaviness with which she held herself, the shattered light in her eyes. “Shh,” he soothed her, gently untying the rope around her right arm. “Just take it easy, all right?”

“Thank you,” she whispered again, slumping forward.

Somehow, Sam didn’t think that 911 was going to get there in time to save her.

“Come on, let’s get her down,” Dean said quickly, gently reaching to support her at the knees and shoulders.

Meg cried out as they lifted her, and Sam could feel the shattered fragments of her spine grind together unnaturally. Even if she lived, she’d be paralyzed from the waist down, at best, he realized. His heart ached at the thought. Whoever Meg Masters had been, he was sure that she didn’t deserve this. “Sorry,” he whispered. “Sorry. I’ve got you, I’ve got you,” he murmured, unsure if she could even hear him through the pain. “It’s okay.”

Meg’s nose was bleeding now, blood running freely to mix with the trail from her mouth. She allowed her head to loll back, staring at Sam and Dean with glassy eyes. “A year,” she forced out.

“What?” Sam asked, just as quietly. If she was forcing herself to speak, in this condition, whatever she had to say must be important.

“It’s been a year,” Meg said, cracking a tiny smile. Instinctively, Sam shushed her, his hands hovering over her shoulders. He wanted to soothe her, somehow, but he knew that any touch would be agony.

“Shh, take it easy,” Sam murmured as the girl gasped for breath.

“I’ve been awake… for… some of it,” she managed. She took another few gasping breaths. “I couldn’ move m’own body.” Sam swallowed hard, his eyes stinging. “The things I did… It’s a nightmare,” Meg gasped.

“Was it telling us the truth about our dad?” Dean asked urgently.

Sam looked up sharply. “Dean,” he admonished. Now wasn’t the time. This poor girl didn’t have long left. She didn’t need to spend her last moments worried about the Winchester family, not after enduring a year of torture.

“We need to know,” Dean muttered in reply.

Meg took a few more gasping breaths. “Yes,” she breathed. “But it wants –” another gasp “– you to know that… they want you to come for him.” Her mouth was filling with even more blood, Sam realized, his stomach turning. Jess would’ve known what that meant, he thought distantly. All Sam knew was that Meg was probably bleeding internally, and Bobby’s place wasn’t nearly close enough to the hospital. Meg was gonna be carried out in a body bag.

“If Dad’s still alive, none of that matters,” Dean murmured.

Bobby chose that moment to return, grim-faced, carrying a glass of water. Sam helped Dean support Meg’s head, and Dean raised the glass to her lips. Meg choked and spluttered as she drank.

Sam swallowed hard and gently rubbed the back of her head with his fingertips, hoping that the motion was light enough to comfort instead of hurt. “Where is the demon we’re looking for?” he asked quietly when Meg sagged back, apparently too exhausted to drink more.

Meg panted and shook her head minutely, lolling against Sam’s fingertips. “Not there,” she murmured distantly. She took a few more weak gasps. “Other ones,” she whispered, rolling her head slightly to look at Sam. “Awful ones.”

“Where are they keeping our Dad?” Dean asked urgently.

Meg turned her head painfully to look at Dean. “By… the riv-river,” she whispered. She took a few shaky breaths. “S-sunrise.”

Something imperceptible changed, a strange stillness that had nothing to do with motion. She was dead, Sam realized, and something inside him crumpled.

“Sunrise? What does that mean?” Dean asked, staring wildly at the dead girl, waiting for an answer. “What does that _mean?”_

Meg didn’t respond, her dead, vacant eyes half-closed. Sam closed his own eyes and took a shaky breath. There were prayers for the dead, he knew. He’d have to look them up – he’d been too shell-shocked to say them for Jess – but Meg deserved _something._

She certainly hadn’t deserved this. Shakily, Dam looked at his brother. Dead did not meet his eyes.

0o0o0o0o0

Sam let Dean drive and took the time to look through the Key of Solomon. They needed to be better prepared for demons, that much was certain. 27 possessions in one year versus a normal three or four – that wasn’t anything to sneeze at.

And the more they knew about demons, the better equipped they’d be to stop what happened to Meg from happening to anybody else.

Sam was still reading when they stopped in Jefferson. Dean was fussing, getting ready; Sam responded to his brother’s few words with his own canned responses. Dad would be fine. They’d be ready. He stared intently at the symbol on the page before him. A devil’s trap. Absently, he pulled white pencil from his pocket and began sketching the symbol on the open trunk of the Impala.

“Dude!” Dean demanded. “What’re you drawing on my car?”

“It’s called a devil’s trap,” Sam said, not looking up. “Demons can’t get through it or inside it.”

“So?” Dean snapped, staring at him.

Sam compared his drawing to the one on the page. Good enough. The symbol didn’t have to be pretty to work. “Basically turns the trunk into a lockbox,” he said to Dean.

Dean continued to stare. _“So?”_

Sam fought the urge to roll his eyes. “So, we have a place to hide the colt while we go get Dad,” he said with what felt like unending patience.

“What’re you talking about?” Dean asked, bewildered. “We’re bringing the colt with us!”

Sam shook his head. That was a good way to get killed, or worse. “We can’t, Dean,” he said. “We’ve only got three bullets left. We can’t just use ‘em on any demon. We’ve gotta use them on _the_ demon.” The sonofabitch that ruined their lives.

“No,” Dean snapped. “We have to save Dad, Sam, okay? We’re gonna need all the help we can get!”

Sam snapped the book closed and glared at his brother. “Dean, you know how pissed Dad would be if we used all the bullets?” he asked, annoyed. “Dean, he wouldn’t want us to bring the gun.”

“I don’t care, Sam!” Dean exploded, gesticulating wildly. “I don’t care what Dad wants, okay? And since when do you care what Dad wants –”

 _“We_ want to kill this demon!” Sam shouted, interrupting his brother. “You used to want that too! Hell, I mean, you’re the one who came and got me at school!” _You made me leave Jess alone to die, you don’t get to pussy out now!_ “You’re the one who dragged me back into this, Dean! I’m just trying to finish it.”

An ugly smile crossed Dean’s face. “Well, you and Dad are a lot more alike than I thought, you know that?” he said cruelly. “You both can’t wait to sacrifice yourself for this thing! But you know what?” A look of pain warped Dean’s face. “I’m gonna be the one to _bury_ you!” he shouted.

That hurt. Sam stared at his brother as Dean tried, and failed, to regain composure. “You’re selfish, you know that?” Dean asked bitterly. “You don’t care about anything but revenge.”

But that wasn’t true. Sam cared about Dad, and Dean, and family friends like Bobby. He cared about getting out of this life someday. He cared about God. He cared about being safe. “That’s not true, Dean,” he said quietly. “I want Dad back. But they are _expecting_ us to bring this gun. They get the gun? They will kill us all!” And even if they didn’t, the demon would, eventually. No one Sam cared about would ever be safe as long as that demon was still alive. “That colt is our only leverage, and you know it, Dean!” He willed his brother to understand. “We cannot bring that gun. We can’t.

Dean glanced at him. “Fine,” he said shortly.

“I’m serious, Dean –”

“I _said,_ fine, Sam,” Dean snapped. He pulled the colt from his jacket and held it up, presumably so Sam could confirm it was the right gun. Flippantly, Dean tossed the gun into the trunk, glaring at Sam the whole time.

0o0o0o0o0

Sam hadn’t expected the plan to take off so smoothly. Pull the fire alarm on the building where Dad was being held, sneak in without civilian casualties and with a minimum of demons. So far, though, they were in the clear.

“I always wanted to be a fireman when I grew up,” Dean said casually, his voice muffled behind his helmet.

“You never told me that,” Sam said, bemused and wondering what prompted that admission.

The EMF meter went off strongly outside apartment 33, and they stopped. Dad was probably in this unit. Either that, or their Dad was being held in a haunted apartment complex.

“Since I was four,” Dean said. Oh. Sam swallowed hard as his brother knocked heavily on the door.

Handheld hoses full of holy water were the perfect weapon against demons. Sam wondered, as the demons screamed and writhed, if the humans they were possessing were also in pain.

0o0o0o0o0

The good news was that Dad was still breathing. Seeing his father bound spread-eagle to a bed and bleeding from the mouth, Sam had trouble saying the same for himself. Sam’s hands shook as he dumped a healthy splash of holy water onto his father’s body.

Nothing. Dad wasn’t possessed. Sam sagged back with relief, just as Dad started to wake up.

0o0o0o0o0

Two demons burst into the apartment as they tried to evacuate. So, out the window it was.

A force like a truck hit Sam in the side; he sprawled on the pavement, stunned, as the man above him began punching furiously. Sam fought wildly, scrambling to get his arms up and protect his face, but the man above him was supernaturally strong. _Demon,_ Sam realized as the man’s fist connected with his jaw.

Dean kicked the demon in the head, startling it for only a second. Then Dean was flying backwards, and Sam writhed desperately, struggling to dislodge the thing.

Sparks burst behind his eyes as the demon returned to pummeling him, hitting his face with abandon. Any human would have stopped due to a broken hand, Sam thought as pain flared in his cheek. If they managed to exorcise this bastard, the poor human was gonna be in a world of pain. And then the thing’s knuckle connected with his eye, driving down so hard he thought his eye might burst, and Sam suddenly wasn’t worried about the state of the meatsuit’s hands anymore.

Darkness was encroaching. Sam’s head throbbed in time with his pulse, and he was pretty sure he was bleeding. Some sort of fluid was seeping down his face, hot and sticky and oh god, he was going to die, wasn’t he? He was going to die, and he’d never expected he’d actually get last rites but suddenly it was so important, and he couldn’t die yet, he hadn’t been to confession in weeks. But he was bleeding and his head was screaming and when the thing hit him again he could barely breathe –

_Crack._

The demon seemed to stutter above him before keeling over sideways, black smoke seeping from the host. Sam gasped for breath, struggling to see through the concussed blur. Above him stood Dean, holding a smoking gun.

The world spun as Dean hauled him to his feet. The ground didn’t quite feel solid, Sam realized as he sagged against his brother. Everything felt just slightly to the right. He was surprised that Dean was keeping steady, when the earth was shaking apart beneath them like this.

Dean held him steady for a few seconds. The world didn’t quite stop spinning and vibrating the way it had, but Sam was able to focus on the body on the ground, the dead demon, the dead human. _Guess it doesn’t matter that he broke his hands on my face,_ Sam thought giddily.

“Come on. Come on, we gotta get out of here.” Sam allowed Dean to drag him, though he stared back at the body anyways. Following Dean’s lead, he crouched to pick up their belongings while Dean picked up their barely-conscious father. His head swam and pounded, but Sam forced himself to carry on after his brother.

0o0o0o0o0

Flickering lights meant that the safe house wasn’t quite as safe as they had thought. Sam looked around wildly and ran towards the window.

“It found us,” John said tightly. “It’s here.

Sam could barely breathe. “The demon?” he asked, anger and fear warring for dominance within him.

“Sam, lines of salt in front of every window, every door,” Dad ordered brusquely.

“Already did it,” Sam said.

“Well, check it, okay?”

He could do that. “Okay,” Sam agreed, picking up their industrial-sized salt canister and jogging off to ensure that the perimeter was secure.

How had the demons tracked them? He was sure they hadn’t been followed. But maybe the demons had placed a tracker on Dad while he was drugged. Maybe they had been able to tamper with the Impala. Sam’s head throbbed and swam as he thickened the salt lines. He was nearly positive he had a concussion, but that could wait. Right now, he needed to take care of this.

Sam reentered the main room and froze in shock. Dean was pointing the colt at Dad, _Dean was pointing the colt at Dad,_ was _Dean possessed?_

“Stay back,” Dean growled.

He had to move. “Dean,” Sam called, taking a tentative step forward. “What the hell’s going on?”

“Your brother’s lost his mind,” Dad snapped.

Dean shook his head. “He’s not Dad,” he rasped.

Time seemed to slow for a moment. “What?” Sam asked, dumbfounded.

“I think he’s possessed,” Dean said, his voice tight, wavering. His hand, however, was steady, pointing the gun at their blank-faced father. “I think he’s been possessed since we rescued him!”

“Don’t listen to him, Sammy,” Dad ordered.

Stunned, Sam looked between his brother and his father. Dad _looked_ exactly the same… “Dean, how d’you know?” he asked quietly.

Dean’s face contorted. “’Cause he’s – different,” he said through clenched teeth.

“You know what? We don’t have time for this,” John said, shaking his head, but otherwise remaining still. “Sam, if you want to kill this demon, you’ve gotta trust me.”

It certainly sounded like Dad, and the intensity in his voice was Dad all over. But Dean was right. Something about the man was off. It was subtle, all right, but it was there. Maybe it was the strange feeling that while he wanted Sam to obey his orders, he wasn’t counting on it. And that wasn’t like Dad at all.

“Sam,” Dad – or whatever was wearing Dad – said pleadingly.

Sam looked back at Dean, who held the gun steady, glaring. Back at Dad, who was just _off,_ somehow. Back to Dean. Dean, who he’d always had faith in, sometimes even when his faith in God failed. “No,” Sam said quietly, shaking his head and edging closer to Dean. “No.”

Dad swallowed hard and nodded, a defeated smile twisting his lips. “Fine,” he whispered. “You’re both so sure? Go ahead.” His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “Kill me.”

Dean did waver then, his grip on the gun shaking slightly. Sam balled his hands into fists, because _shit,_ what now?

John sagged and looked down. For a moment, Sam couldn’t breathe, staring at his slumped father.

In a split second, something changed. The air around his father seemed to crackle with energy, and a strange, sulfuric smell rolled across the room. “I thought so,” the thing wearing John Winchester said, its voice different from anything that Sam had ever heard come out his father’s mouth before. The thing looked up, and Sam barely caught a glimpse of yellow eyes before he was lifted from his feet, flying across the room and connecting hard with one of the walls.

Sam heard the colt clatter to the ground as Dean hit the wall opposite him, grunting loudly. The demon bent over to pick up the gun, examining it with derision. “What a pain in the ass this thing’s been,” the demon muttered. It turned to look at Sam, twisting his father’s face in a mockery of a smile.

“It’s you, isn’t it?” Sam forced out, struggling to speak through the tight pressure that kept him pinned to the wall. There was just enough give for his lungs to take in shallow breaths; speaking left him lightheaded. God, it felt like being pinned by a car, or something else equally heavy. He expanded his lungs as much as he could, ignoring the screaming pressure in his chest. “We’ve been looking for you for a long time.”

“Well,” the demon said, its voice almost playful, “you found me.”

“But,” Sam managed, “the holy water –”

The demon chuckled, its unblinking yellow eyes meeting and holding Sam’s. “You think something like that works on something like me?”

Something _shoved_ him, and Sam grunted as his already throbbing head smacked back hard against the wall. “I’m gonna kill you,” he forced out through gritted teeth, his ears ringing almost too loudly for him to hear his own words.

“Oh, that’d be a neat trick,” the demon said, barely audible through the buzzing in Sam’s ears. “In fact, here.” Sam stared as the demon laid the colt down on a table and took a step back. “Make the gun float to you there, psychic boy.”

Bastard. Sam grimaced, reaching desperately for the gun. The demon chuckled and walked across the room to Dean. Sam struggled to tune the thing out as it taunted his brother, focusing his efforts on trying to drag the gun towards him. He’d moved that heavy cabinet at the Millers’ house; he could damn well move a gun!

The pressure against his chest seemed to intensify, unrelenting. Sparks burst behind his eyes as the gun shook slightly, but otherwise refused to move forward. Sam bit the inside of his lip and _pulled,_ struggling to consciously harness a power that he had never before used on purpose.

Distantly, he saw Dean posturing as the demon taunted him, but the ringing in his ears was too loud for him to hear the thing’s words. From the look on Dean’s face, it was highly unpleasant.

“…would… if I… your family…” If he strained, he could make out a few words. Sam abandoned his attempts to seize the colt and focused on listening – listening, and fighting the pressure keeping him pinned.

“Oh, that’s right.” Sam could just barely hear the demon now. “I forgot, I did. Still, two wrongs don’t make a right.”

Dean sneered at the thing. “You son of a bitch,” he spat.

“I wanna know why,” Sam forced out, hoping to draw the demon’s attention. He wanted to know a lot of things. And he’d much rather take them out of the demon’s hide slowly, with holy water and salt, but he couldn’t exactly afford to be choosy now. “Why’d you do it?” _All of it._

The demon turned to face him. “You mean, why’d I kill Mommy and pretty li’l Jess?” it taunted, leering.

“Yeah,” Sam spat.”

The demon chuckled, then, to Sam’s dismay, turned back to Dean. “You know, I never told you this, but Sam was gonna ask her to marry him. Been shopping for rings and everything.”

_It was small and understated, a thin gold band and a small, yet still prominent, diamond. “Are you sure she’ll like this?” Sam asked, worrying squinting at the ring, looking for flaws._

_“Sam, she’s going to love it,” Becky assured him._

_“Trust me, Sam,” Luis said, “Jess isn’t gonna want something big and gaudy. Besides,” he added, leaning forward, “I’ve got figure modeling with her, and if you think I haven’t seen her doodling dream engagement rings on scrap paper for the past three months, well…” He leaned back, smirking._

_Sam took a deep breath and looked back at the ring, which twinkled brightly up at him. “So, you think she’s gonna say yes?” he asked._

_“Sam, my man, you could propose with a ring pop and she’d say yes,” Luis said confidently._

_“But maybe don’t actually propose with a ring pop,” Becky said, lightly punching Luis in the shoulder. “Yeah, though. She’s definitely going to say yes.”_

The demon spun around and prowled back over to Sam, stopping only inches away from him. “You wanna know why?” the thing asked, its stinking, sulfuric breath hot on Sam’s aching face. “Because they got in the way.”

Sam glared. “In the way of what?” he spat.

“My plans for you, Sammy,” the demon murmured, meeting his gaze and holding it. The pressure on Sam’s chest remained the same, but suddenly, it was even harder to breathe. “You, and all the children like you.”

Sam glared furiously. He could feel his face twitching; he longed to lash out, to punch the sorry thing in the eyes, to somehow rip it from his father’s body and beat it to death. His fingers twitched in response, but other than that, the psychic pressure held him still.

“Listen, you mind just getting’ this over with, huh?” Dean panted from across the room. “’Cause I really can’t stand the monologuing.”

The demon whirled around and stalked back towards Dean. “Funny! But that’s all part of your M.O., isn’t it? Mask all that nasty pain. Mask the truth.” It stopped far too close to Dean and smirked down at him.

“Oh, yeah?” Dean asked, and Sam had to give him credit – his voice didn’t even waver. “And what’s that?”

“You know, you fight, you fight, and you fight for this family, but the truth is, they don’t need you,” the demon said. Sam sucked in a breath, ready to protest, but his voice wouldn’t work for some reason. “Not like you need them,” the demon continued. Sam tried to scream, but his lips barely twitched, and his throat wouldn’t respond. The pressure in his chest seemed to expand, a phantom hand pressing warningly against his throat, massaging just tightly enough to be uncomfortable.

The demon smirked. “Sam – he’s clearly John’s favorite,” it said. “Even when they fight, it’s more concern than he’s ever shown you.” Sam thrashed weakly, trying to dislodge the phantom hand from his throat, but it tightened warningly. _It’s lying,_ Sam thought desperately, staring pleadingly at his brother. _Demons lie, Dean! It’s lying!_

Dean smirked, but his lips were trembling, Sam was horrified to notice. Dean wasn’t buying this, was he? “Yeah, I’ll bet you’re real proud of your kids too, huh?” Dean taunted. “Oh wait, I forgot. I wasted ‘em.” The sheen in Dean’s eyes belied his bravado, Sam couldn’t help but think.

The demon went alarmingly still. Sam struggled to breathe, staring desperately at his brother.

The demon took a step back, and a thrill of alarm shot through Sam, his limbs jerking the scant millimeters allowed by the psychic bond. The demon straightened, and Dean _screamed,_ falling forward and thrashing against the demon’s hold.

“Dean!” Sam shouted, adrenaline thumping in his veins, icy fear spreading through his chest. He struggled as his brother moaned in pain, then threw his head back, blood seeping through the front of his shirt. _“No!”_ Sam screamed, writhing where he was held.

Dean panted desperately, whimpering and shrieking as blood poured from his pores, soaking his shirt. Sam screamed wordlessly, thrashing with his body, scrabbling with his mind against the psychic bonds. He couldn’t get a grip, thread-like tendrils of psychic power sliding across iron-like bindings of demonic energy.

“Dad!” Dean screamed, panting as blood began to drip from his mouth. “Dad, don’t you let it kill me!” No sooner had he spoken than Dean threw his head back and screamed, misery and agony and betrayal.

 _“DEAN!”_ Sam screamed, giving up finesse and thrashing with abandon. It was no use. He wasn’t getting free. He was going to watch his brother die. _Mom and Jess, and now Dean. All my fault._ “Don’t!” he screamed desperately, begging internally for the demon to let his brother go, to turn around and face him, to do this to him instead, because _Dean doesn’t deserve this._

Dean sagged forward, blood pouring from his chest. Sam thrashed, his eyes landing on the colt.

The last time he had performed telekinesis, Dean had been in danger of dying. Sam channeled that same feeling, that same desperation, staring at the gun.

“Dad, please.” Dean’s voice was thick through the blood in his mouth.

So close. He was so close, he could almost wrap his mind, his powers around the gun. Sam struggled to seal the deal, to grab the gun and bring it close enough to grab.

Dean sagged against the wall, and a thrill of terror shot through Sam, breaking his concentration. “DEAN!” he screamed, struggling, desperately hoping that his brother wasn’t dead. “No!”

The demon went rigid. “Stop,” it said – but it didn’t sound like the demon. It sounded like… Dad? “Stop it.”

The pressure holding Sam to the wall released suddenly. He nearly collapsed, panting hard as his lungs finally expanded to their full capacity, allowing him to pull in deep breaths of air. His head spun at the sudden return of sufficient oxygen, and he swallowed hard, taking a moment to reorient himself.

Then he realized – he could _move._ Sam leapt forward and grabbed the colt, then scrambled across the room, panting as he pointed the gun at his father. His hands trembled, and his finger shook where he held it against the trigger.

His father’s body changed again, drawing up to full height. The demon sneered at him. “Kill me, you kill Daddy,” it warned, drawing its lips back.

Blood was pounding in his ears. “I know,” he said, his hands slowly steadying. He couldn’t kill his Dad, he realized, but that didn’t mean he had to let the damn sonofabitch take them down now. He gritted his teeth then moved, shooting his father in the leg. If he was lucky, he’d hit an artery and kill the demon while still leaving some chance for Dad.

Since when had Winchesters ever been lucky?

Dad fell to the ground and Dean fell forward, no longer held up by demonic powers. Sam gasped and wavered – did he go to his father, or to his brother? He swallowed hard and made up his mind, rising to a crouch. “Dean. Dean? Hey,” he said, staring at his brother’s chest, his shirt nearly black with blood. “Oh, God. You lost a lot of blood.”

Dean spat a mouthful of blood on the ground. “Where’s Dad?” he forced out roughly.

“He’s right here,” Sam assured his brother. “He’s right here, Dean.”

“Go check on ‘im,” Dean managed, gasping for air.

Slowly, Sam rose and made his way towards his father. “Dad?” he asked quietly. “Dad?”

A second passed in silence – and then John convulsed, his face twisting painfully. “Sammy!” he cried. “It’s still alive. It’s inside me, I can feel it! You shoot me!”

Sam froze, staring at his father. “You shoot me!” John shouted. “You shoot me in the heart, son!”

Sam swallowed hard and aimed the gun. Could he do this, could he kill his dad? The demon had to die, but that was his _father_ lying before him, and yeah, the man hadn’t exactly been father of the year, hadn’t exactly been around when Sam needed him, but even so, that was _Dad._ Could he really kill his dad?

“Do it, now!” John shouted.

A gurgling sound behind him caught his attention. “Sammy, don’t you do it,” Dean begged.

“Sam!”

“Don’t you do it!”

“You gotta hurry! I can’t hold onto it much longer!”

So many conflicting messages. Sam bit back tears, his mind wildly flitting between pulling the trigger and waiting it out. He needed to decide. This was time-sensitive, and Dad was begging to die, and Dean was begging him to save their father, and this was too much –

“You shoot me, son!” Dad cried, his voice thick with pain. “Shoot me! Son, I’m begging you! We can end this here and now!”

Sam swallowed hard and tried to pull the trigger. His finger was frozen, he realized. He couldn’t move.

 _“Sammy!_ You – kill me!” John begged.

“Sam, no,” Dean whispered, his voice barely audible.

Sam tried, he tried, he _tried_ to pull the trigger. It wasn’t moving. His finger wasn’t moving.

“You do this!” John screamed. Something wet trailed down Sam’s cheeks, and he ordered his finger to contract, to pull the trigger, but nothing was happening, why was nothing happening? “SAMMY!”

“Sam.” Dean’s voice was too small and quiet. “Sam.”

Before Sam could make himself react, John opened his mouth in a scream. Black smoke came pouring out, forming a cyclone in the air and then sinking into the ground.

Sam collapsed, and he heard Dean fall slack behind him. Before him, however, lay John, staring at Sam as though he had been betrayed.

Sam panted for breath even as his father sagged back against the ground, his face screwed up with misery.

0o0o0o0o0

Dad didn’t speak a word to him as he helped him pile Dean into the backseat. Apart from providing brusque directions to the hospital, Dad didn’t say a word.

Sam took a deep breath and glanced back at Dean, barely able to look at his brother before turning his splitting head back towards the road. “Look, just hold on, all right?” he said. “The hospital’s only ten minutes away.”

Dad panted next to him. “I’m surprised at you, Sammy,” he muttered. “Why didn’t you kill it?”

 _Thou shalt honor thy parents_ warred with _thou shalt not kill._ And Sam had made his choice.

“I thought we saw eye-to-eye on this. Killing this demon comes first!” John gasped. “Before me! Before everything!”

Sam glanced in the rearview mirror at Dean, bleeding from the pores, dying from internal trauma. “No, sir,” he said flatly. “Not before everything.” Dad stared at him, unappeased, so Sam changed tactics. “Look, we’ve still got the colt. We still have the one bullet left. We just have to start over, all right? I mean, we already found the demon once –”

 _Crash._ Light exploded behind Sam’s eyes, and the world dropped and whirled around him. He tried to cry out for his father, for Dean, to no avail. As his eyelids drooped, he could just barely see an enormous shadow with bright lights, and darkness swallowed him before he could move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I went out to write a Sam!whump story. "This will be maybe 10,000 words!" I said. "Oh, but first I'll write a prologue!" Now the prologue is 30k-some words as of season 1, and I have to get through half of season 2 before I get to my original story. Damn me for deciding to play with canon.
> 
> The next chapter will go through season 2 through the end of 2x09 before going canon divergent at 2x10 in the name of the original whump story I planned. The next chapter will include religious Sam, Sam's eating disorder, Sam dissociating, etc. Lots of Sam angst and Sam focus. (For some reason, I originally thought it would go through 2x18, then I checked the timeline, and I was wrong. Anyways. It ends with 2x09/2x10.)
> 
> If you want all that with canon Sam, but do not want canon divergence, the next chapter will be the last one you are okay with. Chapter four is going to sharply and painfully diverge from canon. I don't want anyone to be blindsided by that.
> 
> Also, if you love John Winchester, know that while I won't demonize him, I'm also not going to portray him as a great father. Just FYI.


	3. Season Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam knows something is wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am never doing a story in this format again, I swear to god. I should have been done weeks ago if not for the obnoxious insistence on adhering to canon.

_~In My Time of Dying~_

_Bright lights. Noise, the whirring of helicopter blades. The brief encounter with the demon who’d hit them seemed like a distant dream. “Tell me if they’re okay!” Sam begged the paramedic as she loaded him into the ‘copter._

_“You have to stay still!” the woman urged._

_“Are they even_ alive?! _” he screamed._

It wasn’t that he’d never seen Dean hurt, or unconscious. Hell, he’d taken care of Dean the whole time after that incident with the rawhead. It’s just he’d never seen his brother so deathly still, intubated, not even breathing on his own. He sagged, staring at still form on the hospital bed. “No,” he whispered, a lump forming in his throat.

“Your father’s awake.” Sam jumped slightly as the doctor came up behind him, all business. “You can go see him if you like.”

Thank God. One weight off his mind, Sam turned back to stare at Dean. Dad could wait a few minutes, just – just until he knew. “Doc, what about my brother?” he asked quietly.

“Well, he sustained serious injury,” the doctor said, matter-of-fact. “Blood loss, contusions to his liver and kidney – but it’s the head trauma I’m worried about. There’s early signs of cerebral edema.”

Jess would knew what that meant. All Sam knew was it sounded a hell of a lot worse than his concussion. “What can we do?” he asked. Their fake insurance should cover just about anything, and this was a _hospital._ They’d have an answer.

The doctor paused. “Well, we won’t know his full condition until he wakes up,” he said carefully. “If he wakes up.”

Time seemed to slow. A dull rushing sound filled Sam’s ears; he was too aware of his heartbeat, ta-thump, ta-thump, beating in half-time. “If?” he managed.

“I have to be honest,” the doctor said apologetically. “Most people with his degree of injury wouldn’t have survived this long. He’s fighting very hard. But you need to have realistic expectations, son.”

Sam swallowed rapidly, trying to understand. Dean, fighting hard – that made sense. It was the rest of it that he couldn’t wrap his head around.

The doctor might have said something else, but Sam was frozen, shocked. He took a moment gather his wits. “You said my father woke up,” he said finally, his voice small. “Which room?”

He passed the hospital chapel on the way to Dad’s room. _Fuck you,_ he thought bitterly. _Fuck you for letting this happen to my brother, God._

He’d probably regret it later, when he wasn’t so angry.

0o0o0o0o0

Dean was dying, and Dad was worried about the fucking _colt._ Sam wished he was surprised. The man damn near blew off and undervalued the idea of finding a faith healer or someone to save his son, but the magic gun that could kill a demon, oh, _that’s_ what he was worried about. Sam was trying to give Dad the benefit of the doubt, but damnit, it was _hard._

Dean was dying, the Impala was in shambles, and Bobby seemed all too willing to give up on the Impala. Like it wasn’t Dean’s _baby,_ like Dean wouldn’t kick their asses when he woke up if anything happened to the car.

And damnit, if Bobby wasn’t being cagey too, staring at the list of ingredients John had requested, wide-eyed. “Bobby,” Sam asked, “what’s going on?”

0o0o0o0o0

He never should have given Dad the benefit of the doubt. Duffle slung over his shoulder, Sam stalked into John’s hospital room and walked right past his father, staring angrily out the window.

“You’re quiet,” John remarked.

_Shut up,_ Sam thought angrily. He whirled around and slammed the bag down next to his father’s bed. “You think I wouldn’t find out?” he demanded? How stupid did his father think he was?

“What are you talking abo–”

“That stuff from Bobby!” he snapped. “You don’t use it to ward off a demon, you use it to summon one! You’re planning on bringing the demon here, aren’t you, having some stupid, macho showdown!” If John had been standing, rather than lying in a hospital bed, Sam would’ve decked him.

“I have a plan, Sam,” John said/

And oh, wasn’t that _just_ like his father. He _always_ had a plan, he _always_ was doing the right thing, questioning him was _never_ an option, and Sam was tired, just _tired_ of it all. “That’s exactly my point!” he yelled. “Dean is _dying,_ and _you_ have a plan! You know what, you care more about killing this demon than you do saving your own son!” His throat ached, raw from screaming, and he panted, glaring at his father.

“Do not tell me how I feel!” Dad shouted back. “I am _doing_ this for Dean!”

Sam threw up his hands, furious. _“How?!”_ he demanded. “How is revenge gonna help him?” Revenge wouldn’t fix his liver and kidneys, or his head trauma. Revenge wouldn’t put him back together. They killed the demon, and then what, Dean just magically woke up? “You’re not thinking about anybody but yourself! It’s the same, _selfish_ obsession!”

“Oh, that’s funny!” Dad yelled. “I thought this was your obsession too! This demon killed your mother, killed your girlfriend – you begged me to be part of this hunt! Now, if you killed that damn thing while you had the chance, none of this would have happened!”

Sam wanted to scream. “It was possessing you, Dad! I would have killed you too!”

“Yeah, and your brother would be awake right now!”

_I still would have lost half of what’s left of my family!_ He screamed internally. “Go to Hell,” he spat instead.

“Oh, you know what, I should have never taken you along in the first place – I _knew_ it was a mistake –”

_Crash._

Sam jumped and John cut off abruptly. Sam turned his head and stared, wide-eyed, at the water glass that now lay shattered on the floor. Nothing could have touched it, he realized.

Oh, God. _Please don’t let that mean that Dean is dead,_ he begged, his rage at God suddenly dissipating in a heartbeat. _Please let him still be alive, please, I’ll do better, let him not be dead._ Something invisible had moved that glass.

A loud commotion sounded outside the room. Sam stared around, panicking. _No. Please. Please no._

“Something’s going on out there,” John said, nodding pointedly at the hallway.

Sam barely took a moment to glance back at his father before turning and sprinting into the hallway, following the running hospital staff to _(no, no no no no no)_ Dean’s room. He stopped outside the door, his heart seizing in his chest. “No,” he whispered as nurses quickly adjusted Dean’s tubes and pulled his hospital gown away so the doctor could apply the defibrillator.

“Okay, let’s go again,” the doctor said. Something wet trickled down Sam’s face as the doctor tried the defibrillator again.

“Still no pulse.” Sam’s legs shook, and his left knee nearly gave out. He clung to the doorframe, struggling to remain upright as he watched them frantically trying to revive his dead brother.

It probably had been Dean’s ghost in John’s room, Sam thought miserably. His brother had died alone, all because Sam just had to go argue with their father instead of being with his damn brother!

They were charging the defibrillator for a third time, and Sam could hear Jess’s voice in his head.

_“Don’t get me wrong, I love Doctor Sexy, but it is_ so _medically inaccurate. CPR isn’t that effective, and that isn’t how defibrillators work at all. You can’t just shock someone who’s flatlining and bring them back, that’s not how it works.”_

Dean’s heart was clearly still beating, then, at least. But if his ghost was around, then he was close enough to dead that Sam wondered if it even mattered. He’d never heard of someone becoming a ghost and then returning to their body, alive and well.

Dean’s body jerked as the doctor applied the defibrillator again, and Sam bit down hard on his lower lip. He wasn’t gonna cry. He wasn’t.

“There’s no change. Starting CPR.”

Dean’s body was deathly still as the doctor stripped away the defibrillator pads. Sam shuddered, suddenly overcome with the urge to look away. He forced himself to remain still, to keep vigil. Dean didn’t deserve to die alone.

The doctor began pumping hard, putting his weight into it. Sam clutched the doorway, watching the doctor press down hard, cracking his brother’s ribs to get to the heart.

Suddenly, the machines evened out. “We have a pulse,” one of the nurses declared, and Sam allowed his legs to collapse, allowed himself to sink to the linoleum floor.

0o0o0o0o0

Slipping past hospital security was almost ridiculously easy, especially while dressed in plainclothes. Technically, Sam had never checked out after receiving his concussion diagnosis and being checked for internal injuries; even so, none of the doctors so much as looked at him as he slipped down into the lobby and out the door. It wasn’t like he’d been a high-priority patient.

Finding a toy store was hard enough, but somehow, picking up the Ouija board was even harder. “This is ridiculous,” Sam muttered, staring at the thing. Jesus Christ, it was a _toy._ He was an idiot for even thinking that this might work.

He bought the board anyways and slipped back into the hospital. This time, on his way back to Dean’s room, he did stop by the hospital chapel. He couldn’t bring himself to pray – he didn’t even know what he would say if he could – but he did take a moment to stand and bask in the presence of God. Only once his heart had stopped pounding did he return to Dean’s room.

0o0o0o0o0

_Reaper._

Sam would laugh if he didn’t want to cry so bad. A reaper was here for Dean. Dean wasn’t dead yet, but he was going to die, unless they could find some way around it. “Dad’ll know what to do,” he muttered, striding into Dad’s room.

Dad’s empty room.

Sam stood stock still, waiting for the panic to hit, but it didn’t. Instead, hysterical laughter bubbled up within him, bursting from his chest, high and loud. “D-damnit,” he gasped between peals of laughter. “Fuck. Fuck!”

Dean was dying, Dad was gone, and Sam had no idea what else to do. His hands shook as he reached for Dad’s bag, his laughter petering out and turning to violent trembling. His hands closed over something leather – Dad’s journal.

Maybe they’d missed something. Maybe the journal had something else about reapers.

0o0o0o0o0

He was down to praying. He didn’t have much else left. “Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name,” he murmured. “Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on Earth as it is in Heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil, Amen.”

He took a deep breath and bowed his head. “God,” he murmured, “I know you are all knowing and all powerful. I know you have a plan. But please, please, don’t let my brother die. Please grant us a miracle. I…” He swallowed hard. “Please, Lord, he and Dad are all I have left. And he’s a good man, he’s done so much good in the world already. Please let it be your will to save him.”

The machines beeped quietly. Sam shivered and chanced a glance at his brother, then bowed his head again. “Saint Michael, the Archangel, defend us in battle,” he whispered, another familiar, rote prayer. He didn’t think he could string together the words to create another prayer of his own right now. “Be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the Devil. May God rebuke him, we humbly pray. And do thou, O prince of the heavenly host, by the power of God, cast into Hell Satan, and all the evil spirits who prowl about the Earth, seeking the ruin of souls.” _Send an angel to watch over Dean. To send the demons who hurt him back to Hell. Please._

__

“Hail Mary, full of –” Sam’s voice broke. He swallowed hard. “Full of grace, the Lord –” His voice caught again, and he choked back a sob. He took a moment to compose himself, swallowing rapidly until his stomach settled.

__

A loud gasping noise sounded, and Sam’s head shot up. “Dean!” he gasped, staring as his brother thrashed, wide-eyed, sucking in frantic breaths. Alive. Dean was alive – and choking on his oxygen tube, it seemed. “HELP!” he shouted, turning towards the hallway. A nurse jumped and stared at him, startled. “I need help!”

__

0o0o0o0o0

__

Dean was fine. He was _fine._ His internal damage was healed – liver, kidney, head, hell his ribs weren’t even cracked after CPR. Sam couldn’t wipe the grin from his face. _Thank you, God._ It was a miracle – it had to be.

__

Dean was going to be okay. Laughter bubbled in Sam’s chest, and he felt younger than he had in years.

__

“You said a reaper was after me?” Dean asked, his voice hoarse from the oxygen tube.

__

Sam huffed a laugh. “Yeah,” he said wonderingly.

__

“Well, how’d I ditch it?”

__

God, Sam wanted to reply. God pulled through. But Dean would just roll his eyes at that, so Sam laughed instead. “You got me,” he said, and his face felt like it would split, he was grinning so hard. “Dean, you really don’t remember anything?”

__

Dean shook his head, looking perturbed. “No,” he said quietly, frowning. “Except this… pit in my stomach.” He glanced up. “Sam, something’s wrong.”

__

Sam guessed a near-death experience would make anyone feel that way. He didn’t see any downsides. Hell, if Dean didn’t remember anything, he wouldn’t know to give Sam crap over the Ouija board.

__

Someone knocked gently against the door, and Dad entered, his arm bound up in a sling. “How you feeling, dude?” he asked, his voice rough.

__

Dean shrugged. “Fine, I guess,” he said softly. “I’m alive.”

__

Something strangely soft crossed John’s face. “That’s what matters,” he said roughly.

__

Sam frowned at his dad. “Where were you last night?” he asked. Last night, while he communed with Dean via a damn kid’s game. While he combed desperately through Dad’s journal, searching for anything that could help.

__

Dad sighed. “I had some things to take care of,” he said, his voice heavy.

__

And damnit, if that wasn’t just Dad all over. “Well, that’s specific,” he snapped.

__

“C’mon, Sam,” Dean muttered.

__

Sam ignored his brother. “Did you go after the demon?” he asked. _Did you abandon your dying son to seek revenge?_

__

John paused, then shook his head. “No,” he said finally, refusing to meet Sam’s eyes.

__

Sam scowled at him. “You know, why don’t I believe you right now?” he snapped, glaring at his father.

__

John sighed and walked forward, his every step heavy, exhausted. “Can we not fight?” he asked, fixing Sam with pleading eyes. Stunned, Sam rocked backwards – he had never seen his father look at him like that before. “You know, half the time we’re fighting, I – I don’t know what we’re fighting about,” John said, a sad smile twisting his lips. “We’re just… butting heads.”

__

Sam looked down, feeling abashed for some reason.

__

“Look, Sammy, I’ve…” John trailed off, taking a deep breath. “I’ve made some mistakes,” he said quietly. “But I’ve always done the best I could.”

__

Dad used to dig into his pockets for spare change, just in case, before leaving them in the motel with all the cash he had on hand. He could fend for himself with fake cards, but he did whatever he could to make sure that Sam and Dean wouldn’t starve while he was on a hunt. Sam swallowed hard. He’d always cared. He’d always tried his best.

__

John shook his head and offered a pained smile. “I just… Don’t want to fight anymore, okay?”

__

Alarm bells were going off in Sam’s head. Sometimes Dad would get emotional for a minute after a hunt; if he was drunk, he might get emotional for a little while. But Dad wasn’t drunk, and here he was, being freakishly honest and emotional. “Dad,” Sam asked quietly, “are you all right?”

__

Dad’s lips twitched. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Yeah, I’m just a little tired.”

__

That was reasonable, but… Sam stared at his father, worried. Dad _looked_ okay, he told himself. Maybe Dad had worried about Dean more than Sam had realized.

__

“Hey, son, would you mind, uh – would you mind gettin’ me a cup of caffeine?” John asked, his eyes sad even as he smiled.

__

Sam could do that. Dad had probably been up all night, just like he had. “Yeah,” he said, nodding. “Yeah, sure.” Maybe when he got back, Dad would tell him what, exactly, was off. He edged slowly out of the room, the hair standing up on the back of his neck.

__

The hospital cafeteria was dreary, limp fruit and soggy toast slapped on trays, carafes of lipton tea and watery coffee. Sam grimaced as he filled up a cup of weak coffee and slapped a lid on it. He hadn’t eaten in more than a day, but just glancing at the gross-looking trays made him feel ill. He busied himself with the coffee and headed back towards Dean’s room.

__

He walked slowly, determined to not spill the coffee on himself. His eyes swept the hall by habit as he moved forward. Nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing, body, noth–

__

A body, a familiar-looking body sprawled on the ground in Dad’s room. The coffee fell from Sam’s hand as stared. “Dad?” he whispered, staring. It couldn’t be. Without thinking, he ran forward. “DAD!” he bellowed, sprinting into the room and dropping to his knees, reaching frantically for a pulse. There was none.

__

Sam panted, staring in disbelief. “HELP!” he screamed. “SOMEBODY HELP ME!”

__

0o0o0o0o0

__

The doctors couldn’t do anything. There was no miracle of God. Dad was gone.

__

_~Everybody Loves a Clown~_

__

Burning Dad’s body was possibly the hardest thing Sam had ever taken part in. The flames licked and ate at the corpse, and the stench of burning flesh filled the air, nauseating him. Sam struggled to keep himself together, struggling to reconcile the lifeless body with his father, larger-than-life, always in control, barking orders and making plans, on top of everything.

__

His father had too much life to be a burning corpse.

__

0o0o0o0o0

__

He didn’t last one day at Bobby’s before he felt like he was going to burst. Bobby lent him the keys to a junker without question, and Sam drove straight to the first Catholic church he found. A small, rickety parish, the place was worn and empty, the pews scuffed, the carpet threadbare. The building couldn’t hold more than one hundred people, Sam thought. He dipped his fingers automatically in the basin of holy water and crossed himself, then dropped into the back pew to pray.

__

After a while, he sat back, unable to concentrate. He breathed in the smell of old wood and the barest traces of incense that lingered in the church.

__

Hours passed before he saw another soul. A young, dark-haired woman, maybe a decade older than Sam, crossed herself and knelt next to him in the pew, offering him a smile. “Hey,” she said quietly, meeting his eyes. “Haven’t seen you around here before.”

__

Sam turned his head to look at her and tried to force some mimicry of a smile. “Just passing through,” he said.

__

“I’m Jody,” the woman said, sitting back in the pew and offering her hand. Sam shook it automatically. Firm grip, he noted. “And you are?”

__

Sam looked down. “I’m Sam,” he said.

__

“Nice to meet you, Sam,” Jody said, smiling. “Not many people seem to go to church during the week. Then again, what do I know, I only just started looking for religion a few months ago. You doing all right?”

__

Was it that obvious? “I’m fine,” Sam said quickly.

__

“Really?” Jody asked, cocking her head. “’Cause I think my toddler’s more convincing than that.”

__

Damnit. Sam sighed and sagged slightly. “My dad just died,” he admitted. “It was unexpected. I’m – I’m not sure what to do without him.”

__

Jody exhaled, nodding sympathetically. “My mom passed away a few years ago,” she told him gently. “I was a mess for months. I always thought she’d be there when I made detective, or when I got married, or when I had my first child. Then it turned out she had stage four breast cancer, and before I knew it, she was gone.” She reached out and gently rested a hand on Sam’s shoulder, warm and comforting. “I won’t say it gets easier, but you learn to live with it.” Her lips twitched in a smile. “And hey, if there’s anything to this Christianity thing, your Dad’s in a better place now, right?”

__

_If only._ Sam had a pretty good idea why his Dad was dead, while Dean was miraculously healed. “Yeah,” he said, nodding. After all, maybe he was wrong, and Dad was in heaven after all.

__

0o0o0o0o0

__

Dean spent so much time working on the Impala, it made Sam’s time at church, praying fervently, seem negligent. Sam wasn’t doing well, but at least he was dealing with it, was working through it. Dean was burying himself in the car and refusing to deal, closing in on himself, barely saying a word at dinner before excusing himself to either work more on the car or go to bed.

__

Sam had clocked his calorie consumption at 1500 per day since before he arrived at Stanford, and from the calculations he had nearly memorized, Dean was eating even less than that. A grown man couldn’t live on that little for long.

__

A case would do Dean good, Sam decided. He’d find a case, Dean would get back into the field, and things would go back to normal.

__

Cracking Dad’s voicemail code to find a case was a relief on multiple levels. (That Sam had immediately guessed his mother’s birthday was a can of worms he wasn’t ready to open.)

__

0o0o0o0o0

__

The old roadhouse was rundown and looked to be barely worth the upkeep and rent. Who the hell ran a bar and grill this far out of town?

__

It was dark, on the inside, a few moth-eaten pool tables and outdated pinball machines the only décor to offset the rickety tables and wobbly stools that surrounded the bar. A young man lay passed out on one of the pool tables. “I’m guessing that isn’t Ellen,” Sam said dryly.

__

“Yep,” Dean responded.

__

Sam shook his head and slipped behind the bar, quietly sliding through the door to the back room. An old charcoal grill (wasn’t that a fire hazard, having that inside?) sat in the middle of several cracked counters. The industrial-sized fridge was ancient and probably several decades out of code.

__

“Hey, there.” Sam froze at the sound of a gun cocking behind him. “No funny business, you got me?”

__

Sam gulped, staring ahead. The woman behind him meant business, he could tell by her tone. “My hands are empty,” he assured her. “I’m gonna put them up by my head, all right?”

__

“Yeah, you do that, slugger,” the woman said. Sam took a breath and raised his hands, wiggling his fingers visibly to prove that his hands were empty. “Good. Move.”

__

“Sam! I need some help in here!” Dean shouted, his voice slightly clogged.

__

Sam swallowed hard as the gun bumped against his back. “Sorry, Dean,” he called, walking forward, the gun following his every movement. “I can’t right now, I’m, uh, a little tied up.”

__

If he didn’t have a gun pressed against his spine, maybe he’d laugh. Dean was being held hostage by a tiny little slip of a girl an entire a foot shorter than his brother, with blonde hair and doe eyes that made her look more like a face model than a marksman.

__

“Sam?” the woman behind him echoed. “Dean?” She paused. “Winchester?”

__

Sam stood stock-still as Dean answered. “Yeah,” he said slowly.

__

The woman huffed a laugh. “Son of a bitch,” she said wonderingly.

__

“Mom, you know these guys?” the girl asked.

__

“Yeah. I think these are John Winchester’s boys,” the woman said, lowering her gun and laughing. “Hey! I’m Ellen!” she said jovially. “That’s my daughter, Jo,” she added, gesturing at the girl, who lowered her rifle carefully.

__

“Hey,” Jo said, the look in her eyes suggesting that she’d bring the rifle right back up if needs be.

__

Dean eyed Jo warily. “Not gonna hit me again, are you?” he asked, holding his hand to his nose.

__

Ellen offered them ice and beer to handle their injuries. She ran a saloon, she told them, a hunter tavern, where hunters came to swap stories and find new cases. Sam wondered why Dad had never come here during the rare lulls in their life. She was tough, Sam surmised in the few minutes they drank with her. She wasn’t some shrinking flower – she was hardy as a successful hunter in her own right, and she gave as good as she got.

__

Breaking the news about John’s death to Ellen was harder than Sam had thought it would be. Ellen hadn’t seen John in years, and still thought of him as invincible. Sam could relate, he realized.

__

Ellen directed them to the drunk passed out on the pool table – and well, as it turned out, Ash was a genius.

__

0o0o0o0o0

__

Clowns would be the death of him. Sam would rather be surrounded and killed by a thousand clowns than ever, _ever_ have to deal with a case with clowns again. Creepy-ass fucks.

__

0o0o0o0o0

__

Ash would be able to pinpoint them to the demon if it ever showed its ugly mug again. And that was something.

__

_~Bloodlust~_

__

Having Dean back to waxing poetic about the damn car was a surprising relief. When Dean took a tire iron to the trunk of the Impala, Sam had wondered if he’d lose him. Now, as they sped along, the Impala looking like a damn new car despite being nearly 40 years old, it was a sign that Dean was gluing himself back together.

__

0o0o0o0o0

__

Cattle deaths and mutilations. They might not be a big deal, but they might be a sign of something supernatural. Demons were most likely, and Hell, Sam hoped it wasn’t demons.

__

Talking to the county sheriff was a bust, but invading the hospital was next on the list. Sam glanced at the hospital chapel, but no sooner did Sam avert his eyes than Dean groaned, and grabbed him by the collar of his stolen lab coat to drag him forward. It wasn’t like he’d planned to stop the damn mission to pray, Sam thought, annoyed. It was just good to keep faith in mind.

__

And then, as it turned out, the girl in the morgue was a vamp. Their victim was a damn vampire. So, were they looking for a vampire – or another hunter?

__

0o0o0o0o0

__

The bartender wasn’t so hard to bribe, as far as bartenders went. Sam had been to bars where the bartenders were cagey enough that slipping them a few Ben Franklins wasn’t enough to unglue their lips – though, granted, those bartenders usually didn’t work at dives like this. Fifty dollars was barely a dent in their savings – especially considering the three grand Dean had hustled out of some entitled rich kids at their last overnight stop. Sometimes it paid to hit up the classier establishments.

__

“Barker farm got leased out a coupla months ago,” the bartender informed them. “Real winners. They’ve been in here a lot. Drinkers. Noisy. Had to eighty-six ‘em once or twice.”

__

The back of Sam’s neck prickled warningly. Someone was watching them. He could practically feel the stranger’s gaze burning the back of his head. Sam surreptitiously moved his leg and kicked Dean lightly, three times. Dean stilled minutely – message received. He glanced at Sam and took a sip of his beer. “Thanks,” he said,

__

The bartender nodded, watching them curiously. Dean set his beer down and motioned to Sam. Sam hadn’t even taken a sip of his beer – just as well – but he put it down and stood up. Sam walked out first, and Dean followed him out the doors. They were still being watched, he thought, even as he left the bar. It seemed that their mystery stalker had left the bar.

__

He glanced sidelong at Dean, who nodded and automatically fell in step beside him, waiting for the thing to come up on them.

__

“It’s probably not a vampire,” Dean said, barely audible. Sam glanced sharply at him. “I mean, the bartender didn’t point out anyone in the bar as part of that rowdy crowd, right? Probably just some lonely chick or something,” he said, chuckling.

__

Sam shuddered, remembering the last time he’d been nabbed by humans while leaving the bar. “If this person is human, let’s just hope they don’t hunt people,” he muttered, trying to make light of the memory even as his stomach twisted.

__

“Aww, man, I was looking forward to busting your bitch ass out of a cage again,” Dean replied, huffing a nearly silent laugh.

__

Dean turned down an alley, and Sam followed. Silence was important in the enclosed space; neither of them said a word.

__

Another turn. Sam’s stomach clenched, and he regretted the half-sandwich he’d eaten before they went to the hospital. This could get ugly. If he strained to listen, he could just hear soft footsteps behind them, rounding the corner of the alley.

__

Dean grabbed Sam by the arm and jerked him around the next corner. Sam nodded and followed his brother, struggling to breathe silently. They made their way to the shadows, and, at Dean’s jerk of the head, froze to assess the situation.

__

The man, or the creature, came into sight. He looked fairly ordinary – dark skin, buzz cut, slightly taller than average – still nothing on Winchester height – with a strong build almost masked by layers of clothes. The man narrowed his eyes and slowed as he walked forward. Sam stared at the man’s face, waiting for his nostrils to twitch as he sought their scent, or for his fangs to descend as he caught it. Nothing.

__

The man froze for a long moment, then turned around to stare behind him. Sam nudged Dean, indicating at his machete. Dean nodded, and crept silently forward, waving his hand at Sam to follow. They couldn’t afford to hesitate. Sam lunged forward, his long legs carrying him past his brother, and slammed the man into the alley wall, Dean right on his heels to press a knife against the man’s throat.

__

“Smile,” Dean demanded, his voice deadly.

__

“What?” the man asked, staring between Sam and Dean. He sounded bemused, rather than scared.

__

“Show us those pearly whites,” Dean snapped.

__

The man sagged back and rolled his eyes. “Oh, for the love of – you wanna stick that thing someplace else? I’m not a vampire.”

__

Sam stiffened, his eyes going wide, and he saw his brother twitch. “Yeah, that’s right,” the man said. “I heard you guys in there.”

__

Sam swallowed hard. “What do you know about vampires?” he asked urgently.

__

“How to kill them,” the man said lightly, shrugging. “Now seriously, bro, that knife’s making me itch.”

__

The man turned his head towards Sam; instinctively, Sam slammed him back. “Hey!” the man shouted.

__

“Whoa. Easy there, chachi,” the man said, relaxing deliberately, as though to make himself less of a threat. He carefully lifted his hand, as though surrendering, and drew back his lip, revealing clear, human gums, no curious slits to allow fangs to come through. “See?” he asked, releasing his lip. “Fangless. Happy?”

__

Sam glanced at Dean, who nodded and stepped back, lowering the knife. The man sagged slightly and lowered his hand. “Now, who the hell are you?”

__

0o0o0o0o0

__

“I don’t like this,” Dean said. “I’m sure Gordon’s a great hunter, but damnit, he’s going after a whole nest by himself? Man, it took both of us, and Dad, and the damn _colt_ to take down that last nest. This guy’s gonna get himself killed.”

__

Sam shrugged, uneasy. “I mean, he did say he’s been on this case for over a year,” he offered.

__

“Yeah, well, our cases take a few weeks at most. He’s been on this case for more than a year, that just means these vamps are _good,”_ Dean argued. “He’s gonna end up so much mincemeat. We should stay and help.”

__

Dean had a point, and yet… “He seemed pretty adamant about going at it solo,” Sam said cautiously.

__

“Yeah, well, maybe he’s prepared and can do this, or maybe he’s cocky,” Dean said. “I say we follow him, make sure he’s all right, just until he solves this. If he’s as good as he thinks he is, he’ll never know we were here.”

__

Sam hesitated. It would be more worth their while to let Gordon take these vamps and find another case to work themselves. But Dean almost never asked for something for himself (apart from music control in the car, the asshole), and with how broken up he’d been over Dad, Sam was hard-pressed to say no. “Fine,” he said. “We’ll stick around. If we need to save his life, we do; otherwise, we get the hell outta dodge. And that’s _only_ so if he gets killed, there are other hunters around to take out the vamps,” he added. Dean would tease him and call him soft if he admitted that he just couldn’t say no to his brother right now.

__

Dean nodded and cleared his throat ostentatiously. “Good,” he said. “Good. Hey, let’s hope Gordon’s not as good at noticing people following him as we are, right?”

__

0o0o0o0o0

__

They’d intended to hang out in the next room, but as soon as a loud buzzing noise cut through the walls, the sound of an industrial chainsaw, Dean was off like a shot. Sam followed, hot on his heels, just in time to yank Gordon out from under the blade. The vampire yelled angrily, and Dean slammed into it twice with a pipe, throwing it to the ground. Dean snarled as he stabbed the vampire through its chest; the creature screamed, pinned, and Dean punched it multiple times before seizing the saw handle and pulling it down to sever the vampire’s head at the neck.

__

Gordon stared for a few moments, blinking at them, slack-jawed. “So, uh,” he said finally, his voice slightly unsteady, “I guess I gotta buy you that drink.”

__

0o0o0o0o0

__

Something about Gordon set Sam’s teeth on edge. Sam was a hunter – he was used to drinking to the satisfaction of a case completed. He was used to the relief of a monster dead, or even to vindictive hatred when a monster that tried to kill him was stopped. Something about Gordon was different. The pleasure he took in the death of a monster felt less like relief, and more like joy and gratification. It was unnerving.

__

Dean seemed to have no such compunctions, laughing and joking with Gordon, leaning forward on his elbows, eerily similar to his mannerisms when he was chatting up a girl.

__

“Y’alright, Sammy?” Dean asked casually, taking a drink and grinning at Gordon, his eyes sparkling.

__

Was he? This was too much delight in a death. Yeah, it was a monster who died, but the sheer _glee_ his brother seemed to share with Gordon unsettled him. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he said, not sure he meant it.”

__

“Well, lighten up, Sammy!” Gordon said cheerfully.

__

Something akin to anger coiled in Sam’s chest, and he wasn’t sure why. “He’s the only one who gets to call me that” he snapped. Dad had called him Sammy. Dean still called him Sammy. The only other people who had used that name in his _life_ had been Meg and – and the demon. Even Jess had never called him Sammy.

__

Sammy was only for family, and this guy wasn’t family. And since Dad was dead, only Dean could call him that. For some reason, it was important.

__

Gordon blinked. “Okay, no offense meant,” he said lightly. “Just celebrating a little. Job well done.”

__

Sam grimaced. Yeah, okay. They killed the monster, big whoop. He and Dean would often drink after a hunt, but it was solitary, silent, and they damn well never crowed about the kill. “Right,” he began. “Well, um, decapitations aren’t my idea of a good time, I guess.”

__

Gordon snorted. “Aw, come on, man, it’s not like it was human,” he said cheerfully. “You gotta have a little more fun with your job!”

__

Dean chortled and gestured at Sam. “See, that’s what I’ve been tryin’a tell him!” he declared cheerfully, snapping his fingers and gesturing at Sam. “You could learn a thing or two from this guy!” he said cheerfully, grinning. He waggled his eyebrows and took a swig from his glass.

__

Sam shivered. Something about Gordon left him cold. “Yeah, I bet I could,” he said finally, staring at Dean. His brother seemed oblivious to his discomfort. Hell, Dean and Gordon were getting along like a house on fire, and damn if his brother wasn’t just too into the dude. “Look, I’m not gonna bring you guys down,” he said, rising from the table. “I’m just gonna go back to the motel.” He figured that Dean would be pleased about that – Dean clearly wanted to shoot the shit with Gordon, and at this rate he almost wouldn’t be surprised if Dean went back to Gordon’s room rather than theirs.

__

“You sure?” Dean asked politely.

__

_You’ve practically got your tongue down this guy’s throat, and I’m not into boasting about killing,_ Sam thought. “Yeah,” he said, standing up and pushing away from the table.

__

“Uh, Sammy.” Sam turned around, and Dean jangled the Impala keys to him. Damn. So Dean was planning to get drunk. Sam was damn _glad_ that he wouldn’t be around, then. “Remind me to beat that buzz kill outta you later, all right?” Dean tossed the keys easily to him.

__

Right. Sam caught the keys easily. Maybe his brother was right, and he wasn’t having enough fun – it seemed more to him that Dean was having too _much_ fun.

__

0o0o0o0o0

__

He was tired – tired enough to barely remember to lock the motel door behind him. He hadn’t had much booze, but the sour company had ruined it for him. The stucco hotel walls were the same texture as his old church in Palo Alto, and he laughed to himself. He’d missed mass, last week, to busy spending time with his brother. He’d have to find a church in town. He set his keys down, determined to relax.

__

Something itched under his skin – pent up energy, made worse from exasperation and disgust when spending time with Dean and Gordon together. Sam scowled and opened the bedside table drawer, pulling forth a battered, paperback Bible. He flipped it open to a random page and stared down at the text.

__

_For if you forgive other people when they sin against you, your heavenly Father will forgive you. But if you do not forgive others their sins, your Father will not forgive your sins._

__

Sam winced and tossed the Bible down. He wondered if forgiving others their sins applied to monsters as well. If it did, he had a long way to go to earn God’s forgiveness.

__

An idea struck him, and Sam grabbed his phone. He sat on one of the motel beds and thumbed through his contacts, tapping the down button until he came to the letter R. He didn’t have personal numbers for Ellen, Jo, or Ash, but Ellen had given both Sam and Dean the roadhouse number. Ellen herself had said that hunters passed through from time to time. Maybe she knew something about this Gordon.

__

_“Harvelle’s Roadhouse.”_ Ellen was professional, almost cheerful, on the phone, and Sam couldn’t help but smile. What a far cry from the woman who’d walked him out of her kitchen with a gun to his back. A distant rumble of noise was audible in the background, but it wasn’t nearly loud enough to distort the clarity of Ellen’s voice.

__

“Hey, Ellen,” he said. “It’s Sam Winchester.”

__

_“Sam!”_ Ellen said brightly, sounding slightly surprised. _“It’s good to hear from you. You boys are okay, aren’tcha?”_

__

Apart from the uneasy feeling that Sam couldn’t shake? “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, everything’s fine. Got a question.”

__

_“Yeah, shoot,”_ Ellen said easily.

__

“You ever run across a guy named Gordon Walker?” Sam asked. He shifted slightly.

__

_“Yeah, I know Gordon,”_ Ellen said, a question in her voice.

__

So Ellen knew him, which probably said something. “And?” Sam asked.

__

_“Well, he’s a real good hunter,”_ Ellen said. Her voice softened slightly. _“Why you askin’, sweetie?”_

__

In for a penny… “Well, we ran into him on a job, and we’re kinda working with him, I guess,” Sam said.

__

Ellen inhaled sharply. _“Don’t do that, Sam,”_ she said, her voice suddenly sharp as a whip.

__

Sam frowned, drawing back instinctively. Yeah, Gordon had rubbed him the wrong way, but the vehemence in Ellen’s voice was startling. “I… I thought you said he was a good hunter?” he asked.

__

_“Yeah, and Hannibal Lecter’s a good psychiatrist.”_ Sam blinked, taken aback by her vehemence. Here was a woman who had marched him out at gunpoint when the first met, yet somehow, Sam had never imagined that she could be so intense – and not for lack of thinking her strong and intimidating in the first place. _“Look. He is dangerous to everyone and everything around him. If he’s working on a job, you boys just let him handle it, and you move on.”_

__

That wasn’t dangerously cryptic at all. Who the hell was this man, this apparently dangerous man that Sam had left his brother alone with? “Ellen,” he began, intending to ask for clarification.

__

_“No, Sam. You just listen to what I’m telling you, okay?”_

__

Sam swallowed hard and nodded. “Right, okay.”

__

_“I’m serious.”_ In high school, Sam had often heard his peers joking about their mothers’ “mom voice.” He’d always wondered what the hell that meant – and he was pretty sure he was on the receiving end of it now. _“Sam, you pack up and leave, before you and your brother get hurt, you understand me?”_

__

No? He still had so many questions. “Yes ma’am,” he found himself saying.

__

_“Boy, don’t you call me ma’am,”_ Ellen said, the iron in her voice softening slightly. _“Hey. I’ve gotta go – the bar’s not gonna tend itself. Do you promise me that you’ll get the hell outta dodge and leave Gordon alone?”_

__

Sam wasn’t idiot enough to argue with Ellen right now. “Yeah,” he said. “Got it.”

__

_“All right, sweetie. You keep in touch now, all right?”_ Ellen said, at once stern and fond.

__

He’d do that. “Gotcha. Bye, Ellen.”

__

_“Goodbye, Sam.”_ A click sounded, and Sam snapped his cell phone closed.

__

As soon as Dean got home, he’d wrangle his brother into the car, and they’d leave. Dean could sleep off the booze in the backseat, and he’d answer his brother’s angry questions when he woke up. Ellen’s warning would surely hold some clout.

__

The motel room was too small, cramped and crowded. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a pile of dirty clothes by Dean’s duffel, charmingly topped with old underwear. Seriously, Dean? They’d been here less than a day. Sam shook his head and rose, stretching. His spine popped several times, tiny bursts of relief and looseness. Sam made sure to grab the room key before leaving.

__

Now what? They were low enough on gas that Sam didn’t want to take the Impala out for a joyride. He stared around the barren, empty parking lot, his lips turning down. Walking in circles wasn’t a very appealing idea, but it sure as shit beat huddling in a tiny motel room, wondering if he had already damned himself to Hell. He shook his head and strode over to the drink machine – might as well sip on something caffeinated while he walked, in case Dean needed help getting to bed after a night of drinking.

__

Miracle of all miracles – the soda machine carried name brands, not off-brand junk. Sam grimaced, noting that there was no option for any sort of diet soda. The iced tea looked caffeinated though. Sam fed his coins into the machine and pressed the button; the drink fell, ready for the taking. Sam bent to pick up the drink, then froze. Something was watching him. He could feel the eyes on his back, and somehow, he doubted it was another hunter this time.

__

Nothing came at him, and he stood, clutching the drink in his hand – it wasn’t much weight, but the sensation of cold metal might startle an assailant if he had to strike.. He walked forward, searching – he didn’t see anything, but he could still feel the eyes on him, the sensation of being a prey animal in the gaze of a predator. He’d left his gun in the room – that was a stupid move.

__

Something crackled behind him. Sam tensed, readying himself for a fight, and turned to look at his stalker.

__

Nothing – but that didn’t mean his stalker was gone. Sam stopped and cracked open the drink. Tea to the eyes would blind most people, and even most creatures. It could give him a split-second advantage. He took a slow drink, listening. There was no motion behind him. Sam inhaled then began to move, power-walking towards his room. He needed to grab his gun. He reached for the keys, grimacing as he funbled to locate the room key amongst the Impala keys, multiple PO box keys, even the sentimental key to his old apartment that he had never been able to get rid of.

__

The door clicked open, just as something sounded right behind him. Instinctively, Sam turned towards the noise.

__

Nothing. He swallowed hard, relieved, and staggered into the motel room. He closed the door, breathing a sigh of relief and pressing his back against the door. He was okay. He was safe.

__

He should check the salt lines, just in case. Sam huffed a laugh and crossed the room to set his drink down on one of the narrow bedside tables.

__

Pressure – arms across his chest, yanking him back. Sam jumped and twisted as strong limbs wrapped around him, iron-like snakes, pinning him against a strong, broad chest. He broke free, whirled around, and punched his assailant, his heart hammering, all senses on alert. Another man was coming at him, and he whirled around, punching his assailant in the face and wincing at the contact – his hand was definitely going to be tender for the next few days. He took a deep breath and shifted to turn to the first assailant – and then something heavy connected with the back of his head; blinding pain, then he felt nothing at all.

__

0o0o0o0o0

__

Road beneath him. Sam raised his head and blinked desperately, but his eyes were met with darkness. The feeling of cloth tied around his neck, brushing against his temples, was strangely comforting. His assailants hadn’t blinded him permanently – they covered his face with a bag, or something, so when the bag was removed, he’d be able to see. Thank fuck – Dad had taught them how to fight blindfolded, but Sam was rusty at best. Accompanying the bag was a thick bandana, tied between his teeth and yanking back his cheeks, holding down his tongue. They didn’t want him asking questions, he thought wryly – it wasn’t the sort of gag that would prevent him from making noise, so they clearly didn’t care if he screamed. He couldn’t count on calling for help when they got him out of the car, then.

__

Assuming they weren’t taking him to a dump site where they’d shoot him before removing his body, at least.

__

He needed to take stock. Sam wiggled his fingers and flexed his feet – nothing broken. His legs seemed fine, and while his shoulders pulled unnaturally, that was easily explained by the rope binding his wrists behind his back. Apart from the throbbing goose egg on the back of his head, he was pretty sure he was relatively uninjured. As long as he didn’t have another concussion, there was nothing inhibiting his ability to fight – restraints aside, of course.

__

The road rattled beneath him, and Sam jolted as he bumped around in the backseat. It didn’t feel like asphalt. A wooden bridge, maybe? That would give credence to the theory that they were headed someplace secluded.

__

The car stopped, doors slammed, and a large, male hand gripped his arm in a crushing grip and yanked him out of the car. His kidnappers wrestled him inside, Then pushed him into a chair and tied him down, the arms of the chair digging uncomfortably into his forearms. The bag was yanked away, and Sam blinked blearily, trying to focus his eyes. That… that was the bartender? Sam jerked back, inhaling oxygen in short pants. The man sneered at him, fangs descending as he snarled at Sam. Sam thrashed, but the bonds were too tight. All thoughts of finesse went out the window as he struggled, yanking desperately at the ropes. “Hy!” he tried to yell, but a cloth gag had been tied in his mouth, pulling back his cheeks. His face burned, and he couldn’t make a coherent sound. Oh, God. They’d drain him dry. Sam swallowed hard, almost choking on the weird taste of synthetic cloth that accompanied the gag.

__

The bartender leaned forward, and Sam was already at the back of his chair, nowhere to go. Shit. They were vampires, and he was tied down. He was gonna be a blood bag to the end of his days, at best, unless Dean and Gordon found him in time. Oh God, what if they turned him? No, no, they were just gonna eat him, they _had_ to just be looking for food. Sam twisted his wrists and prayed that they would find him. He couldn’t die this way!

__

“Wait,” A woman’s voice, and the vampire paused. Sam barely dared to breathe, but for every millisecond that the teeth didn’t sink into him, he found himself relaxing. “Step back, Eli.”

__

Sam turned towards the voice, and found himself facing a slight, pretty woman. A hunter? But she wasn’t making a move towards the vampire, and she had called him by name?

__

The vampire grimaced, but he stood up, his fangs retracting. Sam watched, shocked, staring at the man.

__

The tiny woman stalked forward and reached for Sam, for his bonds. “My name’s Lenore,” she said, grabbing the bandana holding Sam’s mouth shut. He grunted as the gag was ripped away, the pressure of the cloth tearing painful against the already-aching back of his head. “I’m not gonna hurt you. We just need to talk.”

__

He’d like to believe her – but. Sam bit back a laugh, sinking back against the rough chair. “Talk?” he began. The big vampire, Eli, stepped in front of him, and Sam swallowed hard. “Yeah. Okay. But I might have enough time paying attention to much besides Eli’s _teeth.”_ Whoever this woman was, she needed to get her pet vampire under control.

__

“He won’t hurt you either,” Lenore said, her face twisting as she looked at Sam. “You have my word.”

__

Laughter bubbled up in Sam’s chest. “Your word? Oh, yeah, great, thanks.” She hadn’t shown her teeth, but what human would defend vampires? And with Eli lurking only a few feet away, able to rip Sam’s throat out in a heartbeat... “Listen lady, no offense, but you’re not the first vampire I’ve met,” he spat. He twisted against the ropes, to no avail. He knew he should calm down and methodically search his bindings for weak points, but they were both staring at him, and shit, if he found a weak point, they’d kill him, wouldn’t they?

__

“We’re not like the others,” Lenore said, meeting his eyes. “We don’t kill humans, and we don’t drink their blood. We haven’t for a long time.”

__

Yeah, right. “What is this, some kind of joke?” Sam spat at his captor.

__

“Notice, you’re still alive,” Lenore said calmly, her generous lips twisting into a small, brief smile.

__

She… She had a point. Did she have a point? Sam exhaled – it had to be a lie. Vampires needed blood to survive. “Okay,” he said, shaking his head. “Uh, correct me if I’m wrong here, but shouldn’t you be starving to death?” Why else feed on humans?

__

Lenore nodded. “We found other ways. Cattle blood,” she said, glancing around at her pack.

__

The mutilations. “You’re telling me, you’re responsible for all of –”

__

“It’s not ideal. In fact, it’s disgusting.” Lenore met Sam’s eyes easily, freely. “But, it allows us to get by.”

__

“Okay,” Sam said, straightening and fixing Lenore with a glare. “Why?”

__

Lenore’s lips twitched. “Survival,” she said. She folded her arms across her chest. “No deaths, no missing locals, no… reason for people like you to come looking for people like us.” She turned around and met Sam’s eyes. Her gaze was surprisingly human; Sam swallowed hard. “We blend in,” Lenore said. Sam shifted, uncomfortable beneath her earnest gaze. “Our kind is practically extinct,” Lenore said quietly. “Turns out, we weren’t quite as high up the food chain as we imagined.”

__

“Why are we explaining ourselves to this _killer?”_ the bartender, Eli, exploded.

__

“Eli,” Lenore said warningly.

__

“We choke on cow’s blood,” Eli spat angrily, “so that none of them suffer? Tonight they murdered Conrad, and they celebrated!”

__

The vampire they decapitated. Sam swallowed back bile, his intestines writhing. Oh, God. The vampire they killed wasn’t hurting humans. He’d defended himself from Gordon’s senseless murder, and they killed him for it. Oh, God, please no.

__

_But if you do not forgive others their sins, your Father will not forgive your sins._

__

And this Conrad hadn’t even been a sinner, a killer. God, Sam was going to throw up.

__

“Eli, that’s enough,” Lenore said angrily.

__

Sam swallowed back bile. “Yeah, Eli, that’s enough,” he echoed. Was it? If – if the vampire they’d killed wasn’t hurting humans, then hell, he deserved more than a damn tongue-lashing.

__

“What’s done is done,” Lenore said quietly. She turned back to Sam and fixed him with a hard stare. “We’re leaving this town tonight,” she said flatly.

__

Oookay, and Sam needed to know… why? “Then why did you bring me here?” he asked. If it was for revenge, they would have already killed or tortured him. To turn him, they would have fed him blood. This was all _pointless,_ he thought, twitching in the ropes. “Why are you even talking to me?”

__

Lenore winced. “Believe me, I’d rather not,” she said. “But I know your kind. Once you have the scent, you’ll keep tracking us. It doesn’t matter where we go – hunters will find us.”

__

_“Once a vampire gets your scent, it’s for life,”_ Dad had said. Sam had never even considered it working the other way around.

__

Sam stared at Lenore, and no matter how he looked at the vampire, he couldn’t see a monster. “So, you’re asking us not to follow you?” he asked quietly.

__

Lenore’s throat worked, and sadness tightened her eyes. “We have a right to live,” she said, quietly. “We’re not hurting anyone.”

__

“Right,” Sam said, torn between believing her and following his instincts. “So you keep saying. But give me one good reason why I should believe you?” He wanted to believe her. He wanted to believe that maybe not all monsters were monstrous. The very idea of an innocent vampire went against everything he knew about them – but there was something about this woman, something open and honest, if jaded and world-weary.

__

Lenore leaned forward, her lips twitching, and Sam couldn’t help but lean back. Shit. There was nothing he could do to protect his throat if she went for it, and suddenly he wasn’t sure he could trust her. “Fine,” she said quietly. “You know what I’m going to do?”

__

Sam tried to push himself further back against the chair, but he could tell that much farther and the chair would overbalance, leaving him vulnerable on the floor. The vampire leaned in close, and he fought the urge to scream. He tried to force a grimace, his lips trembling, and prayed that he could keep from embarrassing himself when she killed him. He could die with dignity, damnit.

__

“I’m going to let you go.”

__

It was a full few seconds before Sam could fully comprehend her words – and what? Let him go?

__

“Take him back,” Lenore ordered her pack. “Not a mark on him.”

__

Sam took a deep breath, shocked, barely able to comprehend the sudden blackness as the vampires lowered a bag over his head. He’d been kidnapped, dragged into the vampire’s nest – and they were sending him back unharmed?

__

It made no sense.

__

But the hands on him, while rough, guided him back to the car. One of them sat in the back with him, and then the car was moving, and maybe they _would_ let him live. If they were gonna kill him they’d’ve done it at the nest.

__

The car stopped, and one of his captors dragged him out. Sam blinked as the vampire cut his hands free and yanked the bag from his head, catching a few strands of hair. “You stand there for 30 seconds,” the vampire ordered. “Don’t move, and don’t look back. We’ll be around to shoot you if you do.”

__

Sam wasn’t sure how much stock he put into his kidnappers, but he still counted to thirty (one-missisisppi, two-mississippi) before straightening and pushing open the door.

__

Dean was sitting with Gordon, but Sam caught the relief in his brother’s eyes as they met. Sam took a few deep breaths staring at his brother. He was alive. Shit, they’d let him go, and he was _alive._

__

“Where you been?” Dean asked curiously.

__

He couldn’t give the full story, the tale of pacifist vampires, around Gordon. “Can I talk to you alone?” Sam asked quietly.

__

Dean blinked, then looked back at Gordon. “You mind chilling out for a coupla minutes?” Dean asked. Gordon shook his head, and Dean followed Sam outside. Sam strode forward, because if he had to sit down and look his brother in the eyes, he was never gonna get the words out. This was a conversation to be had while in motion.

__

Sam took a deep breath. This was not going to go over well. “Dean, maybe we gotta rethink this hunt,” he said quietly.

__

“What’re you talking about?” Dean demanded. “Where were you?”

__

Sam laughed shakily. Dean wouldn’t like this answer. “In the nest,” he said, shaking his head. Part of him still couldn’t believe that he was alive, that they hadn’t turned him, that neither of the vampires in the car with him had tried to take a bite without Lenore’s supervision.

__

“What?” Dean stared at Sam; he kept pace, his eyes wide. “You found it?”

__

Sam huffed a laugh. “They found me, man,” he said.

__

“What…” Dean slowed, staring at him. “How’d you get out?” he demanded, his eyes roving over Sam’s exposed skin, looking for puncture marks. “How many’d you kill?”

__

Sam sighed, grimacing – Dean was gonna give him hell for this. “None,” he said, offering his brother a shaky, mirthless smile.

__

Dean stared at him for a moment. “Well Sam, they didn’t just let you go!” he cried finally.

__

“That’s exactly what they did,” Sam said, slowing and turning to face his brother, slowing his footsteps in tandem with Dean.

__

Dean stopped fully and stared at him. “All right, well, where is it?”

__

_Someplace secluded._ “I was blindfolded. I don’t know,” he said out loud.

__

“Well you gotta know something!” Dean exclaimed, gesturing wildly.

__

He had to give his brother something. “We went over that bridge outside of town,” he said, and met his brother’s eyes. “But Dean, listen, maybe we shouldn’t go after them.”

__

From the look on Dean’s face, Sam may as well have suggested that their father was alive and had left them to become the new Santa Claus. “Why not?” he demanded, sounding almost worried, searching Sam’s face. Sam almost laughed – Dean was definitely wondering if he’d been hit too hard in the head.

__

“I don’t think they’re like other vampires. I don’t think they’re killing people,” he said.

__

Dean’s face spasmed. “You’re joking,” he said flatly, and Sam could nearly see his brother debating the pros and cons of straightjackets and rubber rooms. Hell, Sam didn’t blame him – if Dean had come to him with this exact same story a few hours ago, he’d have assumed his brother was hexed. Dean seemed to read the seriousness on Sam’s face, and his face twisted further. “Then how the hell do they stay alive? Or – undead, or whatever the hell they are?!” he demanded.

__

“The cattle mutilations,” Sam said, smiling wryly. Man, even to himself, he sounded a few cards short of a full deck. “They said they live off of animal blood.”

__

If Dean stared any harder, he was gonna pop a blood vessel, Sam thought. “And you believed them?” Dean demanded, his voice cracking with disbelief.

__

Sam didn’t begrudge his brother his disbelief, but – “Look at me,” Dean,” he said, spreading his arms wide. Hell, even his _clothes_ had survived intact. He let himself laugh, and shook his head. “They let me go without a scratch.”

__

Dean shook his head. “Wait, so you’re saying…” He paused, and Sam could nearly see the cogs turning in his head. “No, man,” Dean said finally. “No way. I dunno why they let you go – I don’t really care. We find them, and we waste ‘em.” Dean stalked past Sam, as if sure that his shutdown had worked.

__

Maybe it was irrational, and maybe it was because he had _met_ these vampires, but Sam wheeled around to follow his brother. “Why?” he demanded.

__

Dean stopped and stared at him. “What part of _vampires_ don’t you understand, Sam?” he demanded, an ugly laugh rippling from his throat. “If it’s supernatural, we kill it! End of story! That’s our job!”

__

Sam stared at his brother disbelievingly. “No, Dean, that is not our job!” he exclaimed, staring at his brother. The only reason they’d tangled with that reaper when Dean was dying had been due to _human_ actions. Their damn _mother_ had been a ghost and had saved their lives! Missouri was a psychic – hell, _Sam_ was a psychic. “Our job is hunting evil! And if these things aren’t killing people, they’re not evil!”

__

“Of course they’re killing people!” Dean exploded. “That’s what they do! They’re all the same, Sam! They’re not human, okay?” Dean shook his head. “We have to exterminate every last one of ‘em!”

__

Sam rubbed his eyes and bit back frustration. “No, Dean, I – I don’t think so, all right? Not this time.”

__

Dean glared at him. “Gordon’s been on those vamps for a _year,_ man, he knows,” he said angrily.

__

Sam nearly burst out laughing. “Gordon?” he asked disbelievingly. Right – Dean had a little man-crush on the dude.

__

“Yes,” Dean said flatly.

__

“You’re taking his word for it?!” Sam demanded.

__

“That’s right.”

__

Okay, and now Sam was getting seriously pissed, because who the hell was this Gordon, that his instincts mattered to Dean more than Sam’s own damn experience? “Ellen says he’s bad news,” he snapped.

__

“You called Ellen?” Dean said, and despite his mocking expression, something in his gaze wavered.

__

Sam nodded, and Dean’s face hardened. “And I’m supposed to listen to her? We barely know her, Sam, no thanks! I’ll go with Gordon!”

__

Oh, and they knew Gordon so damn well. “Right, ‘cause Gordon’s such an old friend,” Sam spat.

__

Dean stared, and Sam could nearly _feel_ his heart rate rising, anger pumping through his veins. “You don’t think I can see what this is?” he demanded.

__

“What are you talking about –”

__

“He’s a substitute for Dad, isn’t he?”

__

Oh. Oh Jesus. Where the hell had that come from? That was way, _way_ below the belt, and Sam knew it. It wasn’t even true, not really – Dean had treated Gordon as a peer, not a mentor – but Sam couldn’t seem to stop the vile, hateful words from spewing from his mouth. “A poor one –”

__

“Shut up, Sam” Dean said, his voice hard, turning away –

__

“– he’s not even close Dean, not on his best day.” A small part of Sam –apparently, the part running his mouth – felt a rush of satisfaction as Dean’s shoulders tensed.

__

Dean turned around, a plastic smile on his face. “You know what, I’m not even gonna talk –”

__

“You know what, you slap on this big, fake smile, but I can see right through it!” And shit, it was bad, it was so bad, but the more he talked, the more he realized just how damn _reasonable_ it was. “’Cause I know how you feel, Dean! Dad’s dead, and he left a hole, and it hurts so bad you can’t take it. But you can’t just fill that hole with whoever you want to!” Certainly not some jackass like _Gordon._ “It’s an insult to his memory.”

__

Dean smiled. “Okay,” he said, turning around. Sam relaxed slightly – bad move, he was too off-balance to dodge when Dean whirled around and sucker-punched him in the face.

__

Sam’s head whipped around, and he grunted, raising a hand to his cheek. Some of his anger bled away, and shit, maybe he’d deserved that. On the other hand, the Gordon as a man-crush theory seemed increasingly flimsy in light of the Gordon as a Dad-surrogate theory. “You can hit me all you want,” he said, looking back at his brother, who was nearly shaking with rage. “It won’t change anything.”

__

Dean glared at Sam, his eyes too bright. “I’m going to that nest,” he said furiously. “You don’t wanna tell me where it is? Fine. I’ll find it myself.”

__

Sam sighed – what else could he say? “Dean,” he called as his brother stalked back towards the motel room. He shook his head and followed his brother.

__

The lights were off, and the room was empty. Sam frowned, glancing around the room, as Dean did the same. “Gordon?” Dean called. No response.

__

Shit. “You think he went after ‘em?” Sam asked, his heart pounding.

__

“Probably,” Dean said.

__

“Dean, we have to stop him –”

__

“Really? Sam? ‘Cause I say we lend a hand.”

__

Sam forced himself to remain calm. “Just give me the benefit of the doubt, would you?” he snapped – okay, not as calm as he wanted to be. “You owe me that.”

__

Dean scowled. “Yeah, we’ll see,” he muttered. “I’ll drive. Gimme the keys.”

__

Fine. Sam could live with that. He took a few steps towards the table where he’d dropped them, and froze, staring at empty composite. No. “He snaked the keys,” Sam half-whispered.

__

“He _what,”_ Dean demanded.

__

“The keys were right there –”

__

“So, you’re telling me,” Dean said, his voice low and dangerous, “that Gordon decided to run off with the keys to my baby.” Sam turned to look at Dean; his brother looked downright murderous. “That son of a bitch.”

__

0o0o0o0o0

__

Sam could _feel_ the tension radiating off the remaining vampires when he found them, less than a mile out. Eli growled, his fangs descending, when Sam lifted Lenore’s limp figure from the passenger’s seat. “She’s alive,” Sam called before he dared approach. As if to corroborate his statement, Lenore moaned, and the vampires relaxed minutely.

__

One of the vampires whose name he didn’t know approached, holding his arms out. Sam passed Lenore to him; she grunted, twitching weakly at the change in position. “She’s been poisoned with dead man’s blood,” Sam said quietly. “It’ll wear off.”

__

“We know the effects of dead man’s blood,” Eli said harshly, clenching his fists.

__

Sam nodded and raised his hands. “Right. Right. My brother and I are gonna hold Gordon off, try to buy you guys a few days to get the hell outta dodge.” He met Eli’s eyes. “If I were you, I’d get out of the country. Barring that, get a dairy farm. No one needs to know about cattle deaths if you don’t report them.”

__

Eli nodded, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. “Lenore’s a pacifist,” he said. “And Lenore, I know you’ll tear my a new one for saying this when you can move –” the other vampires chuckled “– but make no mistake, you come after our nest again, I’ll kill you in self-defense without cryin’ a single tear. I don’t believe in violence either, but I do believe in defending myself and my family.”

__

Sam nodded. He could respect that. “Understood,” he said. “We won’t come after you. I’m gonna sit in my car for a few minutes so I can’t track you. You see me in the next six months, put a bullet in me. If I see you, I’ll get the heck outta dodge, unless you start killing people.” It was a risky deal, but America was a big country.

__

Eli nodded slowly. “Fine,” he said. “I’d better not see those peepers in my rearview mirror, you understand?”

__

“Yep,” Sam said easily. He turned back towards the Impala.

__

“S-Sam.” Sam froze as Lenore’s weakened voice reached him. “Thank you.”

__

Sam nodded, but didn’t dare turn around. He opened the driver’s side door and sat down on the bench seat, exhaling. He didn’t have his rosary in his pocket, but the physical object didn’t matter much, and he could count the beads and the decades. A full rosary, and he’d probably be safe to start driving, unable to track the vampires. “Hail Mary, full of grace…”

__

0o0o0o0o0

__

The sun was rising by the time Sam arrived back at the house. The insides of his eyelids itched with every blink, and he imagined that it was even worse for Dean. First chance they got, they were getting coffee, whether that meant stopping by a 7-11 or raiding the (relatively) nearby houses for a pot. He guessed it all depended on how well Dean had subdued Gordon.

__

The living room had few signs of a fight. Sam reached the kitchen, and was relieved to see his brother up and moving, if a bit haggard, while Gordon sat, glaring stonily ahead, bound to a chair. A few almost decorative ropes looped across his chest and ankles, but Dean had wrapped his forearms in a near solid knot of rope, and had repurposed oven mitts and at least a full roll of duct tape to bind his hands, to boot. Gordon wasn’t going anywhere soon.

__

“I miss anything?” Sam asked, as Gordon glared at them, his fury more of a smolder than an outright fire. That was worrying, but the man was tied down good – what could he do?

__

“Eh, not much,” Dean said, shrugging. His movements were a bit too ginger for ‘not much’ to mean ‘nothing,’ Sam noted, but since when did either of them whine about minor injury? “Lenore get out okay?”

__

“Yeah,” Sam said, not taking his eyes off Gordon. “All of them did.”

__

0o0o0o0o0

__

“Sam?”

__

“Yeah?”

__

“Clock me one.”

__

Sam had to laugh, a dry, grating thing. He wasn’t going to punch his brother. Besides, with the shit he’d said to Dean, he wasn’t sure he hadn’t deserved Dean’s punch.

__

“Wish we never took this job,” Dean said bitterly. “It jacked everything up.”

__

Sam frowned, stilling and looking up at his brother. “What d’you mean?” he asked.

__

Dean was silent for a moment. “Think about all the hunts we went on, Sammy, our whole lives,” he said.

__

“Okay?” Sam asked, leaning on top of the Impala.

__

“What if we killed things that didn’t deserve killing? You know, I mean, the way Dad raised us –”

__

Sam had been wondering that since he first stepped into a Catholic church. “Dean, after what happened to Mom, Dad did the best he could,” he said gently.

__

“I know he did,” Dean said, avoiding eye contact. “But the man wasn’t perfect.”

__

No human was perfect.

__

“And the way he raised us, to hate those things,” Dean said. “And man, I hate them all, I do. When I killed that vampire at the mill, I didn’t even think about it. Hell, I even enjoyed it.” He looked at Sam, his expression bleak.

__

Sam nodded, trying to understand. “You didn’t kill Lenore,” he offered gently.

__

Dean shook his head and stared at his hands. “No, but every instinct told me to. I was gonna kill her – I was gonna kill them all.”

__

Sam shook his head. “Yeah, Dean, but you didn’t.” Sam tried to offer a smile, and failed. “And that’s what matters.” Action and intent, not capability for monstrosity.

__

Dean looked away. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “And because you’re a pain in my ass.”

__

Sam huffed, but he’d take the win. If Dean was up to ribbing him, then things were okay. Dean would be okay. “Guess I might have to stick around to be a pain in the ass, then,” he said.

__

0o0o0o0o0

__

“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It has been a month since my last confession.”

__

The priest was silent for only a moment. “Son?” he prompted, his voice light, jovial.

__

“I’m a murderer.” The words rushed from Sam’s chest. “I, I never wanted to kill anyone, but I did. And most of them were dangerous, but I – some of them might have been innocent. And I killed them without even asking.”

__

The priest was silent. “I.” Sam swallowed. “I’ve also lied. I’ve cheated. I’ve lusted after multiple women. I, um, I looked to the Bible for guidance, then I put it down and ignored it the answers I found in scripture.” He swallowed hard, ducking his head. “I’m a sinner, Father.”

__

The priest sighed. “We are all sinners,” he said. “It is the curse of original sin. We, as humans may strive to do our best, but we all sin throughout our lifetimes.” The priest hummed lightly. “Tell me about these murders. Why did you kill, my son?”

__

Sam grimaced. He clenched his fists – his good fist, at least, as his broken hand throbbed. Good. He deserved the pain. “I was trying to protect people,” he said. “Mostly, I succeed. But I think I – I may have been overzealous. Some of them may have been innocent.”

__

“Hmm.” The priest clicked his tongue behind the confessional wall. “In the end, people can only be judged by God, not by man. Were you there to judge them?”

__

In a way. “Yes,” Sam said quietly.

__

“Then you must examine your conscience. For your penance, I restrict you from communion from a month. Say five Hail Mary’s before leaving the church.” Sam grimaced – it was too light a sentence. But he’d take what he could get without arguing.

__

_~Simon Said~_

__

_A man, a man who shot someone else in cold blood, then shot himself, cool as a cucumber, almost hypnotized. Sam collapsed against the dirty sink, the vision still fresh in his brain, the man’s last words echoing in his head. It’s all going to be okay. Who said that before putting a bullet through their head?_

__

_A bus, number 5500, flashed across his eyes, and he gasped as pain spiked through his head._ He splashed water on his face, blinking the last remnants of the vision from his eyes. It was all clear enough in his mind, anyways.

__

“Sam, c’mon, zip it up. Let’s hit the road –”Dean froze in the doorway, staring at Sam. “What?” Dean asked warily.

__

His head throbbed. “We gotta go,” he managed, stumbling away from the sink and colliding with his brother. If they could make it to the Roadhouse, to Ash, maybe they’d have a shot.

__

0o0o0o0o0

__

Based on Sam’s description of the bus logo, Ash concluded that Sam had seen a vehicle from the Blue Ridge Bus Line, in Guthrie, Oklahoma. No demon signs. Sam stared dully at the exposed wiring of Ash’s souped-up computer for a minute before coming to a decision. “Search Guthrie for a house fire,” Sam said quietly. “It would be 1983. Fire’s origin would be a baby’s nursery, night of the kid’s six month birthday.”

__

Dean’s face froze, and Ash swiveled his head to give Sam a strange look. “Okay,” Ash said skeptically, “now that is just _weird_ , man – why the hell would I be looking for that?”

__

They only had so long before the crazed shooter entered the gun shop – explaining the whole thing was out of the question. Sam reached for his still unopened beer and plunked it in front of Ash. “’Cause there’s a PBR in it for you.”

__

“Gimme fifteen minutes,” Ash said immediately, no hesitation.

__

Fifteen minutes. Yeah, okay. Sam nodded and stood – he needed to pace.

__

“Hey.” Not even ten minutes later, Ash called him back. “Got something for you.”

__

0o0o0o0o0

__

They split up in Guthrie, Sam to follow the shooter, Dean to follow one Andy Gallagher, 23 years old, born in Guthrie, Oklahoma and raised by a single father since he was six months old exactly.

__

Dean would have to handle Andy. Sam barely bothered to slam the car door closed before slipping inconspicuously into the downtown crowd, keeping his eyes glued to the shooter. The man walked easily, a spring in his step, giving absolutely no indication that he was about to shoot an innocent man and then himself.

__

The man paused and pulled a cell phone from his suit pocket. Sam could just barely hear him answer – shit. As far as he could tell from the vision, that phone call was the man’s trigger. Sam bolted across the street, narrowly missing a bus (5500, how ironic). He slowed to a powerwalk at the sidewalk – sprinting into a building always caused questions and slowed the whole damn process down – and entered the building. Ahead of the shooter, _thank you God._ Eyes wide, he cast around for the fire alarm – there. He edged inconspicuously towards it and flipped the switch.

__

Time to go. Sam was closest to the door and eased out first, coming face-to-face with the would-be shooter. The man didn’t seem to see Sam; he stared at the store, his brow creased, a look of confusion on his face. Whatever Andy – or whoever was behind this – had done to this person, he hadn’t planned for contingencies, Sam thought with bitter satisfaction. And then the shooter turned away, and _shit,_ Sam hadn’t realized how high and tight his shoulders were until he finally let them slump.

__

A familiar rumble caught his attention, and Sam nearly froze in the middle of the street. That – that was the Impala, and Andy was at the wheel, on the phone, and _Andy’s at the wheel so where the hell is Dean?!_

__

Sam clenched his good fist and flexed his broken hand wildly, allowing the pain to ground him. Dean was a tough sonofabitch – he wouldn’t go down without a fight. _He would if he was mind-controlled,_ a nasty part of Sam thought. He scrambled for his phone and frantically dialed Dean’s number.

__

_“What?”_ Dean sounded frustrated, and Sam wanted to collapse. Dean must’ve left the car, and Andy jacked it from him then.

__

“Dean, Andy’s got the Impala,” Sam said urgently

__

_“I know!”_ Dean said loudly, exasperated. _“He just… sorta asked me for it, and I, and I let him take it.”_

__

That was… That was the last think Sam had ever expected to hear. “You _what?”_ he demanded. That damn car was practically Dean’s _kid._

__

_“He full-on Obi Wan’d me!”_ Dean yelled, livid. _“It’s mind control, man!”_

__

Shit. Sam knew next to nothing about mind control – even demons only controlled bodies, not minds. He glanced up, just in time to see Mr. Would-Be Shooter step, deliberately, directly into bus 5500’s path. Sam gasped sharply as the man was thrown, no chance for the bus to stop in time. Several people screamed, the bus skidded to a halt, and Sam raced forward, running towards the man. The speed limit in residential Guthrie was only 25 miles per hour, but this was had been clearly going over it. Chances of survival were pretty good as long as the vehicle was only going 35 –

__

But even as he neared the limp figure, Sam could tell that the man was dead. It appeared that Andy’d had a contingency plan after all.

__

0o0o0o0o0

__

At least they got the Impala back easily enough.

__

0o0o0o0o0

__

The back of Andy’s van was completely covered in shag carpet, littered with dangling beads and the stench of stale weed. A friggin’ disco ball hung from the roof, of all things. Yeah, okay, maybe Dean’d had a point when he said that Andy didn’t seem like the stone cold killer type. Then again, Max had seemed like the harmless broken victim type, and look what he’d managed.

__

Zebra print. A painting of a tiger. “This is – this is magnificent, is what it is,” Dean said, laughing. “Not exactly a serial killer’s lair, though.”

__

Sam was struck with the thought that if they’d grown up civilians, his brother probably would have ended up hanging with the stoners in high school and sharing an apartment with his weed dealer in college. It wasn’t like Sam hadn’t experimented in college, and more than once his brother had come home coated with the skunky scent of pot (to say nothing of the bag of “oregano” that Sam had once found when borrowing Dean’s jacket) but the paraphernalia in Andy’s van seemed… excessive.

__

Dean was still rambling, but Sam’s eyes had landed on the books scattered across cushioned blankets. He reached for one and stared at it, then glanced around the rest of the van. “Hegel? Kant, Wittgenstein? That’s some pretty heavy reading, Dean.” He’d read Kant for a psychology class in college. Interesting stuff, even if he disagreed with a lot of it. He could easily see a serial killer reading these – weren’t most serial killers into psychology and stuff? Stoners, on the other hand, seemed to go for skin mags and shit TV.

__

Or maybe Andy was the type who smoked week and got philosophical. Whenever Sam had tried it, he wanted nothing more than to watch dumb comedy and turn his brain off, but Zach had been the type to swear by a joint before writing his essays – maybe Andy was similar, like that.

__

“Yeah, and, uh, Moby Dick’s bong,” Dean said, hefting the thing and grinning. Sam glanced at the thing and raised an eyebrow. He, Zach, and Luis had hung out with this guy Derek a couple times, and Derek had the exact same bong, he realized. He flushed, embarrassed to recognize it. The dude had been the type to name his damn bongs and pieces, and Sam bit back his comment that the thing looked just like Cockabong.

__

“Whaddaya think, Sammy, wanna try this bad boy ourselves?” Dean asked, nudging Sam and grinning.

__

Sam grimaced and shook his head. “No thanks,” he said.

__

Dean chuckled. “C’mon, Sammy, you prude! The dude stole the Impala, we can at least steal some of his weed! It’s pretty much harmless, anyways!”

__

Sam thought for a second, then met Dean’s eyes. “I got that out of my system at Stanford, thanks,” he said, and he didn’t need to try to keep a straight face.

__

Dean blinked, then chuckled. “All right, all right,” he said, laying the bong back down. “But hey, even if you don’t want it…” Dean hefted himself into the back of the van, dug around for a minute, and emerged victorious with a small baggy of green.

__

“Ah, dude, seriously? What if we get pulled over?” Sam demanded.

__

Dean shrugged, grinning. “We won’t, but you know how Dad had that umbrella with a hollow top point, to hold a shiv?”

__

Sam blinked. “Seriously?”

__

“Dude, who’s gonna check an umbrella for secret compartments?” Dean said, chuckling. “Man, seriously, we run credit card scams and dig up graves, and you honestly think we’re gonna go down for some kush?”

__

Okay, fine, Dean had a point. “Just – don’t get high until we finish the case,” Sam grumbled.

__

“Duh, Sammy. I’m a professional.”

__

0o0o0o0o0

__

**“J U S T  L E A V E  M E  A L O N E.”**

__

“Okay, all right,” Dean said, freezing in his seat.

__

Oh, hell no. Sam launched himself out of the car and stalked forward, following Andy down the little side-street.

__

“What are you doing?” Andy asked, sounding shaken. “I, ah – look, I said, **L E A V E  M E  A L O N E!”**

__

Oh, he’d like that, wouldn’t he – this man who had just, just _warped_ Dean into revealing everything to him. Sam stalked forward, glaring.

__

The color drained from Andy’s face. “Ah, get out of here!” Andy said desperately, the aura of power bleeding from his voice as Sam came closer. He raised his hands, as though to psychically push Sam back, but nothing happened. Sam chuckled – he wasn’t a damn wardrobe, to be shoved around. “Just – start driving, and never stop!”

__

Sam nearly chuckled as he kept walking forward, backing Andy into the fence behind them. “Doesn’t seem to work on me, Andy,” he said mockingly, spreading his arms and allowing himself to grin. Andy was close to half a foot shorter than him, and was even smaller when he cowered. Weak. Pathetic.

__

“What?” Andy gasped, his face going slack-jawed, terrified. He held his hands up as though to defend himself, but he didn’t hold a stance, and his thumbs were left free, easy to grab.

__

“You can make people do things, can’t you?” Sam demanded. “You can tell them what to think.” Dean was approaching, and Sam held a hand out, a warning to stay back. Dean stilled, watching closely.

__

Andy laughed nervously, raising his hands. “Look, I – that’s crazy.”

__

“It all started about a year ago, didn’t it? After you turned 22.” Andy’s eyes widened, tearing up, and he laced his hands behind his head, a gesture of surrender. Sam grimaced – he wouldn’t be swayed. “Little stuff at first, then you got better at controlling it.”

__

Andy slowly lowered his hands, staring at Sam. “How do you know all this?” he demanded.

__

“’Cause the same thing happened to me, Andy.” Sam shook his head – either this guy was a damn good actor, or he really was just some kid playing with power for personal gain, no evil plan. “My mom died in a fire too! I have abilities too!”

__

Andy clutched his head, but Sam pressed on. “Y’see, we’re connected, you and me!”

__

“You know what, j-j-just **G E T  O U T  O F  H E R E!”** Andy shouted. “All right?”

__

But he wasn’t going to quit, no matter how this man shrank before him. “Why’d you tell the doctor to walk in front of a bus?” he demanded as the man scrambled backwards, frantically covering his face. Tension was building in his temples, and he needed answers _now._

__

Andy stared, confusion clear in his watery face. “W-what?” he asked.

__

Pain exploded, and Sam staggared as a vision seized him.

__

_Fire, blur, more fire, she was drenching herself and lighting up. She was gonna die._

__

They all died at this man’s hand. “Why did you kill him?” Sam managed.

__

“I didn’t!” Andy looked terrified.

__

_Gas pump, close-up, please, no, his eyes would burst from his head before he could ignore it. “Yeah, okay.” Drenching herself willingly in gasoline, the gas store clerk running out too late, up in flames. She was silent as she burned._

__

0o0o0o0o0

__

The vision had happened, practically in real-time. Andy hadn’t killed that woman – someone else had. Too bad they were back to square one.

__

Sam had to admit, now that he had confirmation that Andy wasn’t some stone-cold killer, he was strangely… okay. Willing to play fast-and-loose with laws and morality, sure, but in his own way, he wasn’t unlike Dean. Andy’s hedonistic , devil-may-care lifestyle and his lack of drive set him apart from Dean, sure, but in a way, Sam could see a civilian version of his brother in this boy. It made his chest hurt, a little.

__

“I got everything I need,” Andy said, and Sam couldn’t help but wonder what that must be like.

__

Most importantly, though, Andy wasn’t a killer. They weren’t all doomed to become Max. It was a relief, a blessing. He’d just have to keep himself under tight control – make _sure_ to go to Mass every week from now on, keep to his eating and exercise routines in a way he had let slide, regulate himself in every way possible – to make sure he went the Andy route, not the Max route. Andy could pull off hedonism without descending into evil, but something told Sam that he wasn’t capable of that.

__

0o0o0o0o0

__

The victim was named Holly Beckett, and she was Andy’s birth mother. Andy’s adoptive mother had burned in the nursery, not his biological one.

__

_Technically, she burned too,_ Sam’s brain supplied helpfully.

__

County records revealed that Andy was adopted out as soon as he was born, not even the shortest stint in foster care. The doctor had overseen the adoption – both victims were tied to Andy. “You have a solid connection to both of them,” Sam remarked.

__

“Yeah, but… I didn’t kill them,” Andy said, sounding lost.

__

“We believe you,” Dean said.

__

And the kicker was, Sam did, because in stark print in front of his, was the probable culprit. “Yeah,” Sam said, staring at the paper.

__

“But, uh, who did?” Dean asked quietly.

__

Sam huffed. “I think I got a pretty good guess,” he said quietly. “Holly Beckett gave birth to twins.” Andy Gallagher and Ansem Weems. And if Andy had these powers, it was pretty damn likely that Ansem did too.

__

“She… what?” Andy asked shakily, staring at Sam.

__

“Yeah, looks like she picked both families out ahead of time,” Sam said, squinting at the records. “Says here you were both in the NICU for a couple weeks, then went home to your respective families. No foster care our anything.”

__

Andy exhaled and leaned back, stunned. “I have an evil twin,” he marveled shakily. He seemed almost like he was in shock, and Sam couldn’t blame him.

__

 

__

0o0o0o0o0

__

Ansem didn’t need words to give his orders – not that it had saved him, in the end.

__

But Sam was okay, Dean was okay, Tracy was okay. Andy…

__

Andy wasn’t a killer, not really. When he’d killed Ansem (oh God, he was a killer) he’d saved Dean. It was a saving grace, Sam told himself. Ansem would have killed Dean, and Andy psychically stopped him. Psychic powers didn’t necessarily make one evil.

__

But Ansem had been evil. For all that he was human, he had succumbed to using his psychic powers to do terrible things. Gun to the head, anyone could be a killer – Ansem hadn’t even needed a gun to the head. Sam couldn’t fight back his unease at the idea.

__

_The man with the yellow eyes._ It all came back down to the demon. Sam couldn’t help but remember pus-yellow clouding his father’s eyes, and it was just proof that whatever was going on, the demon was involved.

__

Sam wondered if he would eventually devolve into murdering innocents. He hoped Dean would waste him before he sunk so low.

__

0o0o0o0o0

__

“C’mon, Sam, we’ve been on the road all day.”

__

They were at another greasy diner, but this one didn’t even pretend to offer real food. “I’m not hungry,” Sam said, taking a defiant sip of water.

__

“Bullshit, Sam. At least get one of your girly salads!” Dean’s voice was quiet, but angry.

__

Dean was ridiculous. “Dude, I’ve got my water. I’ll steal your fries if I want something. Eat your burger.”

__

Dean scowled. “When was the last time you ate?”

__

Sam rolled his eyes. “I ate breakfast, Dean, calm down. When was the last time _you_ had a vegetable?” he asked in retaliation.

__

“Ketchup’s a vegetable,” Dean argued, gesturing at his burger. “And you ate, like, half a granola bar. And you didn’t eat at all yesterday.”

__

Sam stared at Dean. “Have you seriously been tracking how much I eat?” he demanded. What the hell?! Yeah, sure, he tended to eat less when stressed – Jess had pointed that out every single finals week – but still. It wasn’t like he was wasting away.

__

“You know what, Sam, I have,” Dean snapped. “You think I haven’t noticed? Your damn pants are falling off – have been since that whole thing with Andy.”

__

Sam gritted his teeth. “I’m sorry, maybe the realization that I might be a ticking time bomb put me off my feed,” he snapped. “Would you please friggin’ leave me alone about this? I said I’m not hungry, and I swear to God, if you keep pushing this, I’ll puke all over the damn Impala.”

__

Dean’s eyes darkened. “Fine,” he snapped. “Fine. Whatever. Starve yourself to death – see what I care.” He glared at Sam. “But don’t you _dare_ call yourself a time bomb again. You’re not.”

__

Sam snorted. “I kinda am.”

__

Dean slammed his hands down on the table, rattling his beer and Sam’s water glass, sloshing liquid all over the table. Sam jerked back, startled, his heart leaping in his chest.

__

“You are NOT!” Dean shouted. The diner went quiet; Sam could feel eyes on them, burning with curiosity, staring. In front of him, Dean took a deep breath, his face flushing red, eyes narrowed and lips trembling. “You are not a goddamn time bomb, Sam,” he said quietly, his voice fierce. “If you were some kinda time bomb, you wouldn’t be so worried about it. You care too much to be like – like that.” He took a deep, shaky breath. “Drink your damn water.”

__

Sam took a deep breath and nodded shakily, reaching for his water. “Okay, Dean,” he said quietly.

__

_~No Exit: Aftermath~_

__

_“The guy screwed up, got my Dad killed. It was your father, Dean!”_

__

He’d been far enough away to barely hear Jo’s words, but damn, if they didn’t cut him just the same. It was a damn wonder that Ellen hadn’t capped them the first time they showed up at her bar, he thought.

__

Mass had ended nearly an hour ago, but Sam couldn’t bring himself to leave the pew. He’d watched distantly as altar servers dismantled the candles and crosses alongside the priest – father Donahue, or something like that. Whatever. His right knee itched as the rough covering of the kneeler rubbed against skin exposed by the hole in his jeans. Sam’d been more than halfway to the church before he’d realized that he was hardly wearing his Sunday best. If he’d gone back to change, he’d have missed Mass, so here he sat, in a ratty flannel and tattered jeans, wearing a cast-off Led Zeppelin shirt he’d inherited from Dean when he was 16 years old, worn thin and almost too tight now.

__

Nearly two hours after mass, he managed the courage to say a prayer. “Almighty Father, source of forgiveness and Salvation, grant that…” He hesitated. He knew this as a general prayer, but he really wanted to pray for Bill specifically. “Grant that Bill Harvelle, through the intercession of the Blessed Virgin Mary and of all the saints, come to share your eternal happiness through Christ our Lord. Eternal rest, grant to him, O Lord. And let perpetual light shine upon him, may he rest in peace. Amen.”

__

A modified prayer, but it got the intent across. Sam rose, shaking slightly, and walked to the end of the pew. He dropped to one knee, his hands shaking as he crossed himself, then rose from his genuflection and left the church, stopping only to dip his fingers in holy water and cross himself.

__

There was a tent set up at the end of the parking lot, and a large group of parishioners milled around, enjoying a community barbeque. Sam’s lips quirked up in a smile, and he stopped to watch the event. Any church could offer comfort and religion, but damn, he missed being part of a real church community.

__

“Excuse me, sir?” Sam jumped, startled. A girl – no more than twelve, surely – stared at him, wide-eyed but smiling, holding out a plate of food – potato salad and a hot dog, standard cookout fare. “I wanted to give this to you. So you won’t be hungry.”

__

Sam frowned, but took the food. “Thanks?” he said, staring bemusedly at the plate.

__

The girl smiled and nodded, wide-eyed. “Carrie – my step-mom – always says don’t judge someone, ‘cause you don’t know their story,” she said, her eyes sparkling. “But she thinks it was real good that you still go to church. Dad does, too.”

__

Sam dropped his gaze, his cheeks flushing. He was suddenly even more aware of his ratty clothing, of his long hair and week’s worth of stubble. All around him milled men in ties and slacks, women in classy dresses with pantyhose. God, they probably all thought he was homeless. “Um,” he said, staring at the ground. “Thank you.”

__

The girl grinned. “My big brother volunteers at the food pantry,” she said. “Only a street over. You might know about it? But they also help people find jobs, so if you go ask them about it, they can help you!”

__

Sam swallowed a lump of humiliation. “Thanks,” he managed, his hands shaking slightly as he gripped the paper plate. He didn’t deserve this girl’s kindness. It should have gone to someone who actually needed help.

__

“Amanda, there you are!” A stout woman hurried into view, shaking her head at the girl and offering Sam a wide smile. “Sorry, sir. I hope my step-daughter wasn’t bothering you,” she said.

__

Sam shook his head and stared at the paper plate of greasy cook-out food. “Your daughter is very kind,” he said in response.

__

“I should hope so, or her Daddy and I didn’t raise her right.” The woman held out a hand; dazed, Sam shook it, still staring at the ground. “I’m Carrie. We’re glad to have you here. We all want you to know that you’re welcome here, no matter what.”

__

Sam flushed, and refused to meet her eyes. “Thank you,” he said quietly.

__

“Can I get your name?” Carrie asked, her loud voice kind.

__

Well, first names rarely hurt, especially in crowds like this. “I’m Sam,” he said quietly.

__

“Sam,” Carrie said warmly. “Good to meet you, Sam. Do you mind if my Bible study group prays for you? Or is that too invasive? Ah – I’m probably being insensitive.” Carrie shook her head and crossed her arms across her ample chest. “My cousin was where you are now, but between prayer and support from the church, she’s got a job and her own apartment. Can we help you the same way?”

__

Sam bit back a laugh that tasted like ash. “Sure, Carrie,” he said.

__

“Good,” Carrie said, patting him on the shoulder. “Now, go on, eat! Pretty sure I’ve seen Halloween skeletons with more meat than you. You ever get hungry, come to the church – Father Donohue will call one of us to bring in food. Trust me, none of us are gonna go hungry over a day’s worth of groceries.” Her sharp eyes roved over Sam. “And trust me, honey, none of us want to see you starve like you’ve been doing.”

__

He really should correct her. “Thanks,” Sam said, his face hot. She was reading him wrong, but she was a sweet lady. He had to give her props for that.

__

Carrie nodded. “Here,” she said, handing him a card. Dumbstruck, Sam took it. “For your hand,” she added, gesturing at Sam’s cast. “It’s a free clinic. My niece works there – she’s a nurse. They won’t charge to get the cast off, when it’s fully healed. Heck, she’ll give you some exercises for getting that hand back in fighting shape.”

__

They’d be okay with their fraudulent insurance, but Sam smiled at the woman anyways. “Thank you,” he said softly.

__

Carrie chuckled. “You just pay it forward when you get on your feet, all right?” she said, smiling at him.

__

He couldn’t tell Carrie that he’d be just fine, so Sam nodded. “You got it,” he said, smiling weakly. He’d talk Dean into something charitable in the next town. It was the least he could do.

__

_~The Usual Suspects~_

__

A gun. That – that was Dean, on his knees, hands in the air while Sheridan aimed a gun at his head, oh god, oh god no.

__

“Pete!” Detective Ballard shouted. Sheridan jumped and whirled around, training the gun on her. His eyes widened, his finger twitched, but he wasn’t aiming the gun at Dean anymore. “Put the gun down!”

__

Sam stood rigid, ready to leap in front of Detective Ballard if it looked like Sheridan was going to actually fire.

__

God, he’d known that his and Dean’s arrests meant for a bad day, but there was nothing like seeing someone – a human, none the less – on the verge of murdering your brother in cold blood.

__

“Diana?” Sheridan said sharply, training the gun on Dean again. Sam looked between the crooked cop and his brother – now that his attacker was distracted, he could see Dean checking for escape. Dean met Sam’s eyes and offered a tiny smile that didn’t offset the naked fear on his face.

__

“How’d you find me?” Sheridan demanded.

__

“I know about Claire,” Ballard said, her voice shaking.

__

Dean stared at Ballard then back at Sam, who nodded minutely. They could trust the good detective. Something eased in Dean’s face, though none of the tension left his body, poised to spring to his feet and run.

__

“I dunno what you’re talking about,” Sheridan said cagily, the gun still raised.

__

“Put. The gun. Down.” Sam nearly dropped his own gun, startled by the iron command in the detective’s voice.

__

Sheridan shook his head. “Uh, I don’t think so,” he said, keeping a wary eye on Ballard and the gun trained on Dean. “You’re fast. Pretty sure I’m faster.”

__

Sam grimaced and bit down on his inner cheek to keep silent. If this fucker shot Dean, he’d murder him without breaking a sweat, _Thou Shalt Not Kill_ be damned.

__

“Why are you doing this?” Ballard demanded.

__

Sheridan tore his eyes from Dean to stare at his partner. “I didn’t do anything, Diana,” he said, his voice soft, pleading.

__

Ballard barely twitched. “It’s a little late for that,” she said icily, and shit, in that moment, Sam felt a thrill of fear. This woman was _terrifying._

__

Sheridan’s face twisted, and he shook his head. “It wasn’t my fault,” he said plaintively. He glanced at Dean, then back at Ballard. “Claire was gonna turn me in! I had no choice!”

__

Sam bit down harder, and tasted blood. Greedy, selfish bastard. Sure, their family gone against the law before, and what had it gotten them? Arrested and vilified, spat on, forced to live in shit motels and abandoned houses, false accusations of murder, empty stomachs more often than not when he was a kid? Dean patching his own broken wrist with a ratty ace bandage when he was fourteen and they couldn’t afford the hospital? And yet, the Winchesters had _never_ turned to the sort of crime that would hurt people. This bastard had chosen to steal heroin, had chosen to find someone to fence it, had _chosen_ to murder everyone who could implicate him – and that wasn’t self-defense. That was a damn case of actions with consequences. Sam took a deep breath and pulled his finger away from the trigger to keep from shooting the bastard where he stood.

__

“And Tony?” Ballard asked, her voice eerily steady. “Karen?”

__

“Same thing!” Sheridan snapped. “Tony scrubbed the money. Then he got skittish, and then he wanted to come clean. I’m sure he told Karen everything!”

__

Dean’s eyes widened, and he stared at Sam. Sam shivered and nodded slightly. Yep. Their spirit hadn’t killed them – looked like it was a human monster after all.

__

“It was a mess!” Sheridan pleaded. “I had to clean it up. I just panicked.”

__

Ballard tightened her grip on her gun. “How many more people are gonna die over this, Pete?” she asked stonily.

__

Sheridan chuckled, his eyes manic. “There’s a way out,” he said fervently, jerking his head at Dean. “This Dean kid’s a freakin’ gift.” Dean twitched as Sheridan brandished the gun. “We can pin the whole thing on him, okay? No trial, nothing, just – just one more dead scumbag.”

__

“Hey!” Dean protested.

__

Sam hissed, forcing himself to unlock his jaw before he bit through his own damn skin.

__

“No one’ll question it,” Sheridan said, staring pleadingly at Ballard. “Diana, please. I still love you.”

__

Ballard narrowed her eyes, then lowered her gun – then _lowered her gun,_ shit, fuck, shit. Sam staggered in place, and shit, he knew he needed to raise his gun, but his arms were lead. Shit, he should have known better than to trust a cop.

__

“Thank you,” Sheridan said, exhaling as he smiled at Ballard. “Thank you.” He turned to Dean, and no, no, Sam tried to raise his gun but his arms felt like lead, no –

__

_Bang._

__

Sheridan jerked as Ballard brought her gun up and fired. She stalked towards him, and a part of Sam was glad he couldn’t see her face, because the vengeful set of her shoulders and spine was terrifying enough. “Yeah, why don’t you buy me another necklace, you ass,” she spat, her voice shaking with rage.

__

Sheridan roared with fury and used his untouched arms to launch across the grass, knocking her over. Ballard yelled as she was knocked to the ground, the gun flying from her hand. Sam ran forward, but Sheridan reached the gun first and aimed it at Sam as he staggered to his feet. “Don’t do it!” he yelled, and Sam froze. It was three on one. And yeah, Dean was chained, and Ballard was hurt, but still. “Don’t do it,” Sheridan repeated, then he aimed the gun at Dean. Sam hesitated – could he get to a weapon in time?

__

Ballard moved sluggishly, and Sheridan spun, pointing the gun at her. Sam opened his mouth to yell – then, he stopped.

__

The air was rippling behind them. Sam stopped, staring, as a low moan played through the night air, and a figure rippled into existence. Claire.

__

Sheridan whirled around right as Claire became fully corporeal. The man froze, and before Sam could say anything, Ballard whipped to the side to grab one of the abandoned guns and shot, right to the heart. Sheridan went down with a scream.

__

0o0o0o0o0

__

“They’re gonna be looking for both of you, right now,” Ballard warned them. She was probably right – they’d been playing too fast-and-loose with the police for too long.

__

“Nice lady,” Sam said as they left. All said, things could have gone a hell of a lot worse.

__

“Yeah, for a cop,” Dean snorted. “She look familiar to you?” he asked.

__

What? “No, why?” Sam asked.

__

Dean chuckled. “I dunno,” he said, shrugging. “Anyways, are you hungry?”

__

“No –”

__

“Damn. For some reason, I could really go for some pea soup.”

__

Sam snorted. “Right, okay, I get it,” he said, smirking at his brother.

__

Dean glanced at him. “What?” he asked, narrowing his eyes.

__

“No, don’t tell me,” Sam said, grinning at Dean. “You watched some MILF video, and the chick looked like her. Now you’re gonna eat to avoid thinking about it.”

__

Dean snorted and rolled his eyes. “Very funny, Sam. C’mon, man, its gonna take us at least an hour to get to that impound lot.

__

_~Croatoan~_

__

Sam had time for a split second of confusion before Pam launched herself forward with a shriek, throwing him to the linoleum floor, and knocking bottles everywhere. Sam grunted as his head cracked against the tiles, sparks bursting behind his eyes. He grunted again as Pam straddled him, holding him down with a strength that she couldn’t _possibly_ have, not at her size. A fist connected with his jaw, and his head snapped to the side, leaving him stunned.

__

Pain flared in his chest as Pam wrenched his shirt collar to the side and dragged a scalpel through his flesh. He groaned, twisting desperately. No. No, the infection was transmitted through blood, oh God, she was going to infect him.

__

Pam slammed her bloody palm against the cut in Sam’s chest right as the door flew open. Dean burst in, murder in his eyes and guns blazing, but it was too late. Even as Pam fell to the side, dead, Sam knew there was no way none of her blood had mixed with his. Dazed, Sam stared at his own bloody chest. He was infected. In only a few hours, he’d be a mindless, murderous rage monster, determined only to kill or turn everyone else in their small sanctuary – not that he’d live that long. If Dean wouldn’t put him down, he’d do it himself.

__

_Never quite saw myself going out_ this _way,_ he thought hazily. He reached for Dean – a final comfort, maybe? Having his brother help him up, maybe call him a bitch or something, before shooting him in the head?

__

Before their hands could connect, Mark hauled Dean backwards. “She bled on him,” the man said quietly, pity in his eyes. “He’s got the virus.”

__

Slowly, Sam lowered his hand and felt at his chest. Yep – a smear of blood unnaturally intercepted his cut. Not that he’d really had any hope to begin with, but something crumpled in his chest.

__

“Fuck you,” Dean snapped, wrenching out of Mark’s grip and stalking across the room. He gripped Sam by the forearm and tugged; Sam went, because what else could he do?

__

“Sorry, Dean,” he said quietly, wishing he could erase the utter terror on his brother’s face.

__

Dean seized him by the shoulders and shook him slightly. Sam winced as the motion caused his shirt to drag across his injured chest. “No,” he said fiercely. “No, you’ve got nothing to apologize for. We don’t even know if you’ve got this thing.”

__

“Dean, we _saw_ her infect him,” Mark pointed out reasonably.

__

“You don’t know that!” Dean yelled, barely glancing over his shoulder before turning back to Sam. “Yeah, you’re gonna be okay, she was a psycho bitch, but you’re gonna–”

__

“Dean.” He couldn’t let his brother delude himself – it would only make things harder. “Dean, look.” It was awkward, maneuvering his arms when Dean held both of his shoulders, but he wasn’t going to make his brother let go. He pulled his shirt down enough to reveal the bloody smear. “I’m sorry, I’m really sorry, but she did get me.”

__

Dean shook his head. “No, no, that could be yours–”

__

“It’s not.” His eyes stung, but he forced himself to smile. “’Least I was able to save some people before I went, right?” Crap, his voice was shaking.

__

“Don’t you fucking dare,” Dean hissed. “There’s gotta be something – a cure, or you didn’t catch it, or, shit, maybe God’s real and you’ve done the communion and holy water thing often enough to–”

__

Sam snorted, cutting Dean off. “It would take me dying for you to suggest that God might be real,” he said, trying to force some humor into the situation. From Dean’s stricken expression, it wasn’t successful. “I mean, yeah, it sucks that I’m not gonna get last rites and all, but let’s face it, with this job, that wasn’t likely anyways.”

__

Dean shook his head furiously. “Quit talking like that,” he rasped, his eyes watering. “You hear me? We will figure this out, we always have.”

__

Sam shook his head. “Dean, please. I don’t wanna turn into that.” His stomach churned at the thought. He could practically feel the infected blood in his veins, someone else’s blood _inside_ him, changing him, making him evil.

__

Sam nearly choked in surprise as Dean dragged him forward and hugged him tightly. “No,” Dean said. “You’re my little brother, and I’m not gonna let you die.”

__

Sam shook his head, but leaned into the comfort. “You’re gonna have to, Dean,” he said. “You’ve gotta let me go.”

__

0o0o0o0o0

__

“Nobody is shooting my brother.”

__

Pain-in-the-ass, over-protective, pig-headed older brothers! Sam held an ice pack over the bandage, keeping it in place more for something to do with his hands than anything else. He wanted to scream at Dean to be practical, but couldn’t bring himself to do more than stare at the floor. He wondered why Mark hadn’t shot him – scared of what Dean would do, probably.

__

“He’s not gonna be your brother much longer – you said it yourself!” Duane argued.

__

“Nobody’s shooting anyone!” Dean snapped.

__

_“You were gonna shoot me!”_ Duane yelled in response.

__

“You don’t shut your pie-hole, I still might!”

__

Sam tore his gaze away from the floor. “Dean, they’re right,” he said quietly. It was almost strange, to have no compunctions about begging for death. “I’m infected. Just give me the gun, and I’ll do it myself.” At least he could die human.

__

“Forget it,” Dean said, his voice unwavering. In some uncanny way, in that moment, he reminded Sam of Dad.

__

Fortunately, Sam was never the one who had trouble arguing with Dad. “Dean, I’m not gonna become one of those things,” he said flatly.

__

Dean’s eyes were wild, and damn, Sam hated hurting his brother like this. “Sam, we’ve still got some time,” he insisted desperately.

__

“Time for what?” Mark asked, exasperated. “Look, I understand he’s your brother, and I’m sorry, I am. But I gotta take care of this.” Mark drew his gun, and Sam flinched in spite of himself.

__

“I’m gonna say this one time,” Dean said, a dangerous undercurrent to his voice. “You make a move on him, you’ll be dead before you hit the ground, you understand me?” He gestured violently, desperately. “I mean, do I make myself clear?!”

__

“Dean!” Sam shouted, flabbergasted.

__

“Then what are we supposed to do?!” Mark demanded, his eyes wide with fear.

__

Dean stared at Sam, silent for a long moment, then he reached into his pocket, pulled out his keys, and tossed them to Mark. Sam started, staring at Dean – Dean barely trusted _him_ with the Impala. “Get the hell out of here, that’s what,” he said woodenly. “Take my care. You’ve got the explosives – there’s an arsenal in there.” He nodded at Duane and Doctor Lee. “You two go with him. You’ve got enough firepower to handle anything now.”

__

Mark frowned. “What about you?” he asked.

__

Dean stared at Mark for a long moment, and something sank in Sam’s chest. His stupid, bullshit, self-sacrificing brother! “Dean, no,” he said, desperation rising. Turning would be bad enough in itself, but – but now, if he turned, he was gonna hurt his brother?! “No,” he repeated when Dean turned to look at him, poker-faced. Bastard. “Go with them! This is your only chance!” He – he couldn’t be responsible for killing Dean, or for turning him, he _couldn’t._

__

“Ah, you’re not gonna get rid of me that easy,” Dean said, a tremulous smile crossing his face.

__

0o0o0o0o0

__

Turned out, it didn’t matter. The three survivors came back – the whole town was empty, every monster gone.

__

In the morning, Doctor Lee confirmed that Sam’s blood was clean. He’d never been infected in the first place.

__

_~Hunted~_

__

It took some badgering, but Dean finally agreed to talk. For Dean to have talked about being tired of the job, not to mention how cagey he’d been for the past few months, something big had to be going on.

__

“Right Before Dad died, he – he told me something. Something about you.”

__

“What?” Sam asked – that was the last thing he’d expected. Dread pooling in his chest, sticky and dark and shit, why did it feel familiar? “Dean, what did he tell you?”

__

Dean continued to stare at the ground, not meeting his eyes. “He said that he… wanted me to watch out for you. Take care of you.”

__

Sam shook his head, bemused. “He told you that a million times,” he said.

__

“No, this time was different,” Dean said, too serious. Sam stared, bewildered. Dean took a deep breath. “He said that I had to… Save you.” Dean looked up, his face haunted.

__

Something in Sam went blank, empty. “Save me from what?” he asked, forcing himself to keep his voice calm. From the feelings inside him, he’d never talked about?

__

Dean closed his eyes. “He just said that I had to save you,” he said quietly. “That nothing else mattered. And that if I couldn’t, I’d –” Dean broke off, refusing to meet Sam’s eyes.

__

Heart pounding in his chest, Sam stared at his brother. “You’d what, Dean?”

__

Dean looked back at Sam, his face bleak. “I’d have to kill you,” he said miserably.

__

Sam’s vision went white and staticky. Something strange buzzed in his ears; time seemed to slow, and he was increasingly aware of the blood pulsing through his veins.

__

“He said that I might have to kill you, Sammy,” Dean said, and his voice was far away.

__

Sam was having trouble thinking properly. “Kill me?” he echoed at last. “W-what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

__

“I dunno.”

__

“I mean, he must have had some kind of reason for saying it, right?” Sam demanded. “I mean, did he know the demon’s plans for me? Am I supposed to go dark side, or something?!” His chest grew tight at the thought. “What else did he say, Dean?” he demanded, in face of Dean’s silence.

__

“Nothing, that’s it. I swear,” Dean said, but Sam was barely listening.

__

“How could you not have told me this?” Sam demanded furiously. His chest hurt just thinking about it.

__

“It’s because it was Dad, and he begged me not to,” Dean said, a tinge of anger coloring his voice.

__

As if that was an excuse. “Who _cares?”_ he demanded. “Take some responsibility for yourself, Dean! You had no right to keep this from me!”

__

“You think I wanted this?” Dean demanded, steel beneath the quiet of his voice. “Huh? I wish to God he’d never opened his mouth! That I wouldn’t have to walk around with this _screaming_ in my head all day!”

__

Sam turned away, disgusted. As if Dean had any right to put this on Sam. Boohoo, he might have to kill his monstrous brother, at least he _wasn’t_ the monster. Sam glared out at the water, searching as though he might find answers on the horizon. “We’ve just gotta figure out what’s going on, then – what the hell all this means,” he said finally.

__

“We do?” Dean asked, his voice flat. “I’ve been thinking about this. I think we should just lay low. Y’know? At least for a while. Be safer.”

__

Sam stared at his brother as he continued. “And that way, I can make sure –”

__

“What?” Sam demanded, barking out a laugh. “That I don’t turn evil?” Hysteria bubbled in his chest. God, he knew it, he’d known it, he was too late to fight it, the corruption he had felt in his veins even before he had a word for it. No wonder he hadn’t been affected by the virus – he was already evil. “That I don’t turn into some kind of killer?”

__

Dean grimaced. “I never said that,” he said angrily.

__

The angry words rolled from him without thought. “Jeez, you’re not careful, you will have to waste me one day, Dean,” Sam spat.

__

“I NEVER SAID THAT!” Dean roared. “Damnit, Sam, this whole thing is spinning out of control, all right? You-you’re immune to some weirdo demon virus, and I don’t even know what the hell anymore!”

__

_It’s because you’re a ~freeeeeeak~_ the voice in Sam’s head sing-songed. Sam took a gulp of beer and refused to look at his brother.

__

“And you’re pissed at me, and I get it. That’s fine, I deserve it,” Dean said desperately.

__

Sam turned around angrily, because no, Dean didn’t get it. He didn’t know what it was to feel corruption in your veins your whole life, and have that feeling turn out to be true. There was something _wrong_ with him, and he’d tried to burn it out, and apparently, he hadn’t succeeded!

__

“But we lay low until we figure out our next move, okay?” Dean asked desperately.

__

“Forget it,” Sam snapped. He downed half of the rest of his beer, desperately hoping that he would feel something, the beginnings of drunkenness, where he could accelerate it until he rode high on a drunken haze, exempt from reality.

__

“Sam, please, man,” Dean begged, taking a step towards him. “Hey. Please.”

__

Dean slapped him on the shoulder, and Sam turned to face his brother, frowning. He was too sober for this shit.

__

“Just give me some time,” Dean begged. “Give me some time to think, okay? I’m begging you, please. Please, man, please.”

__

Sam swallowed hard, but nodded. “Fine, Dean,” he said. “Okay.”

__

0o0o0o0o0

__

He slipped out in the middle of the night, while Dean slept. He didn’t necessarily want to break his promise to Dean, but he needed answers. He’d known how to break into and hotwire a car since he was 13, courtesy of John Winchester’s paranoia – seemed like the skill was gonna pay off.

__

The car radio was set to country. Sam chuckled slightly and played with the dial until he hit a modern indie station. Dean would be appalled, but hey, Dean wasn’t here to chastise him.

__

0o0o0o0o0

__

“Sam.”

__

Sam grinned sheepishly, slinking towards the bar. “Hey, Ellen,” he said. “You don’t seem that surprised to see me.”

__

Ellen nodded. “Your brother’s been calling, worried sick, looking for you.”

__

Sam huffed a laugh. “Yeah, I figured he might,” he said, shifting a bit.

__

Ellen shook her head and gave him a no-nonsense look. “What’s going on between you two?” she demanded, at once motherly and commanding.

__

Sam grimaced and shook his head. Not like he could tell the truth. “So, um, how’s Jo?” he asked as he walked towards the bar, hoping to distract her.

__

Ellen rocked back, then nodded ruefully. “Well, I don’t really know,” she said, offering him a sad smile.

__

That… could mean a number of things. “What d’you mean?” Sam asked, concerned.

__

“I haven’t seen her in weeks. She sends a postcard now and again.” Ellen huffed a laugh.

__

“Well, what happened?” Sam asked, resting his arms on the bar and scooting towards a stool.

__

Ellen huffed. “Well, after she worked that job with you boys, she decided she wanted to keep on hunting,” Ellen said, smiling wryly. “I said not under my roof, and she said fine.”

__

Damnit. Sam exhaled and shook his head. “So, I’m probably the last person you want to see right now,” he said quietly.

__

Ellen chuckled. “Aw, don’t get me wrong,” she said. “I wish I could blame the hell outta you boys. It’d be easier.” She chuckled. “Truth is, it’s not your fault. Sam. None of it is.”

__

Sam offered a thin smile, and Ellen continued. “I want you to know that I forgave your daddy a long time ago, for what happened to my Bill,” she said. “I just don’t think he ever forgave himself.”

__

Sounded like Dad. The man never forgave himself for anything. “What did happen?” Sam asked.

__

Ellen was silent for a moment, then shook her head. “Um, so, why did you come here, sweetie?” she asked instead of answering, offering up a look of concern.

__

_I might be a monster._ “I need help,” Sam said quietly.

__

“What kind of help?” Ellen asked, her lips curving down slightly, worried.

__

“I need Ash to track something for me,” Sam said. “A pattern I – I’m working on.”

__

Ellen huffed a laugh. “Well, you came to the right place,” she said, turning around to the back and cupping her hands. “Ash!” she shouted. “Get your grimy butt out of bed if you haven’t already!”

__

A loud thud sounded, approximately the weight and tone of a mid-sized man. Ellen turned back around and smiled fondly at Sam. “Give him five minutes, sweetheart,” she said. “You want a beer while you wait?”

__

0o0o0o0o0

__

Sam wasn’t even on his third beer when Ash banged through the door to the back, brandishing a folded scrap of paper. “Done and done,” he announced.

__

“That was fast,” Sam said, surprised. Even limiting the search to psychics who’d had house fires, he’d expected the search would take at least a day or two.

__

“Well, apparently, that’s my job,” Ash drawled, settling down onto a barstool and throwing his head back. “Make the monkey dance at the keyboard,” he said, grinning lightly, almost flirtatiously.

__

“Just tell us what you got, Ash,” Ellen said, slightly impatient.

__

“Four folks fit the profile, nationwide,” Ash declared. “Born in ’83, mother died in a nursery fire, the whole shebang.”

__

That couldn’t be right. “Four?” Sam demanded. “That’s it?”

__

Ash glanced up at him, suddenly serious. “Sam Winchester, from Lawrence, Kansas. Max Miller, from Saginaw, Michigan. Andrew Gallagher from Guthrie, Oklahoma. And, uh, another name. Scott Carey.” He tossed the paper to Sam and looked away.

__

Sam seized the paper. Scott Carey was the only unfamiliar name. “You got an address?” he asked.

__

“Kinda,” Ash said regretfully. “The Arbor Hills Cemetery in Lafayette, Indiana. Plot 486.”

__

Sam swallowed hard. “So, he’s dead?” he asked shakily.

__

“Killed, about a month ago,” Ash said, staring darkly ahead.

__

“Killed how?” Sam demanded.

__

Ash grimaced. “You sure you want to know?” he asked grimly, meeting Sam’s eyes. “It’s ugly.”

__

Sam swallowed hard, but he nodded. “Yeah,” he said, his voice shaking. “Yeah, tell me.”

__

Ash glanced at Ellen. “Ellen, can I get a beer?” he called, before turning back to Sam. “Cops found him strung up, dead for several days,” he said quietly. “Crucified. No joke, he was crucified. Looks like they tried to nail him in like a crucifix, then when the nails didn’t hold at his hands, they just tied him there.” Ash shuddered. “I had to do a little digging into police files to get this, but whoever did this nailed some plank saying “killer” to the cross. Coroner said it took him almost four days to die.”

__

Sam’s stomach roiled, his beer threatening to come back up. Deliberately, he pushed the glass away. “Do we know if he actually killed anyone?” he asked, his voice shaking.

__

Ash shook his head, and accepted the PBR that Ellen passed wordlessly to him, still in the can. “He was in therapy or something, but no arrests, much less any convictions. And, hell, half our regulars could use some therapy – don’t make them murderers,” he said, taking a swig of beer. “Maybe he figured his psychic stuff out and started going after monsters, maybe he was actually a murderer, maybe he was some poor kid caught up in the crossfire. And hell, maybe it’s got nothing to do with him being psychic.” Ash shook his head and met Sam’s eyes. “I’d still watch my back if I were you, just to be safe.”

__

Sam nodded, his skin crawling. “Yeah,” he agreed.

__

Going to Indiana was a bad idea, he told himself. A very bad idea. But he had to know. He had to get answers about this Scott Carey kid.

__

0o0o0o0o0

__

Scott’s dad was a wreck – understandably. His voice shaking, and regularly stopping to cry, he assured Sam that Scott was a good boy, if a bit troubled by headaches and fear and nightmares. It was too familiar. If this Scott was a murderer, he wasn’t a vicious one.

__

Sam wondered what that meant for himself.

__

When he opened Scott’s closet to find hundreds of cutouts of menacing yellow eyes, he nearly lost his composure. Sam halfway collapsed, gagging and retching, his empty stomach trying to force something out. A distant part of him was glad that he hadn’t had anything since the beers at the roadhouse; it still took him several minutes to collect himself and stand up again.

__

He and Scott were definitely connected, somehow.

__

0o0o0o0o0

__

He woke up in the middle of the night to a heavy body above him and cloth covering his face. “Shhh, it’s okay, Sammy,” Gordon Walker said, his eyes expressionless, his voice soothing. Sam struggled wildly, his limbs strangely heavy; he tried to flail, but he body wasn’t quite obeying his commands. “Sorry it had to be this way, but you’ll get it. You were a hunter, you’ll understand.”

__

Sam moved weakly, disconnected from his body. This was wrong. Something about this was very, very wrong.

__

And then there was nothing.

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, uh, the next chapter on is Sam being horrifically tortured. So. If you are squeamish or dislike torture in the slightest, I offer you this ending: Dean stole a car and deliberately crashed into Gordon. Sam sustained mild injuries, but was okay. He stayed with Dean for a while, met the love of his life, and adopted a dog. All the pain he went through as a hunter was irrelevant, and he lived a lovely life with a spouse and two kids and a golden retriever, the end.
> 
> For everyone who ISN'T squeamish, or likes torture, etc etc... That is not what is gonna happen. I have done so much research to make this accurate - Sam is gonna hurt. Anyone who can send me a fact about crucifixion I don't know gets a free 1000 word one-shot of their choice! (This works on the honor system, but I love my readers and cherish new knowledge and will reward new knowledge with fic.)


	4. Crucify Him

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The psychic shall be crucified.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is the main story I wanted to write overall.

0o0o0o0o0

Sam came back to himself gradually, his limbs twitching against a multitude of ropes. He was curled in the footwell of the front seat of a car, he realized. Duct tape pulled at his mouth as he looked around – the tape was wrapped around his face multiple times, not just slapped across his lips. Damn. His kidnapper was no amateur.

“I want you to know, this doesn’t make me happy, Sammy.” Sam jumped at the familiar voice. _Gordon._ “I’d’ve just as soon put a bullet in you, nice and quiet, if it were up to me. But I’ve got a debt to some other hunters, and they want things like you. Nothing personal, but you were a hunter. You know creatures have to be put down.”

Sam grimaced and ran his tongue against the seam of his lips, futilely trying to wet the tape enough to render it useless. “Gordon!” he shouted, the gag rendering him unintelligible.

“I’d tell you not to fight, but I know you won’t listen,” Gordon said, his voice calm and measured. “That’s okay. You go on and wear yourself out. You’re not getting out of this alive no matter what, but feel free to struggle.”

Sam growled. Gordon hit a pothole, and Sam jolted, his shoulder slapping hard against the car floor. “Mmynnaguhuh,” he snarled. _I’m gonna kill you._

The sun rose as they continued their drive, a new day beginning as Sam jolted around in the footwell of some damn truck. Hours passed before Gordon stopped, by which point Sam was sure his entire body was one giant bruise from bumping against the floor of the car and smacking against the glove compartment. Gordon stepped out of the driver’s seat, walked around to open the passenger door, and hefted Sam over one shoulder. Sam thrashed, cursing behind his gag, but Gordon barely stumbled, making his way towards what appeared to be a dilapidated, abandoned church. Two unfamiliar men lounged in folding chairs in front of the church; they rose as Gordon walked towards them.

“What’cha got for me this time, Gordon?” one of the unfamiliar men rasped. Sam grunted as Gordon deposited him before a ruddy blond with cruel eyes. Behind him, the other man shifted and fiddled with the ball cap in his hands, seemingly uncomfortable.

“Sam Winchester,” Gordon said. “Psychic. One of those demon-tainted kids.”

The blond man tutted. “Psychic, hm?” he murmured. “Of course he is.” He chuckled. “‘Beloved, do not believe every spirit, but test the spirits, whether they are of God; because many false prophets have gone out into the world.’ Looks like John the Apostle knew what he was talking about.” The man glared at Sam. “And here we have one of these false prophets. Speaking the future, claiming to speak the truth, trying to make himself God on this earth.”

“Yeah, sure,” Gordon said dismissively. “Do I still owe you, Kubrick? Or does this one finally meet your exacting standards?”

The man – Kubrick – stared down at Sam for well over a minute. He knelt and searched Sam’s face for a long moment, then seized his hair, yanking him up hard. Sam grunted with pain as he was hauled to his knees, his scalp screaming. “He takes on a likeness of Jesus and preaches false prophecy,” Kubrick said, eerily calm. “This is the one I was looking for. You don’t owe me anymore, Gordon. Thanks for _finally_ delivering him to justice.”

Gordon snorted. “Okay. I leave him with you, and I won’t be bringing you another one just ‘cause you change your mind,” he said, taking a few steps back. “Time to get back to taking out monsters the _civilized_ way.”

Kubrick barely seemed to hear him. “You do that,” he said. His face twisted and his hand tightened as he yanked Sam’s head back further, staring at him. “Well, what do you have to say, boy?” he demanded.

Sam took a deep breath through his nose and glared at the man. He wet his lips behind the gag, and did not even try to produce sound. “Thought so,” Kubrick said nastily. “Creedy, you got the research this time? How to do it right?”

“Jeez, Gordon,” the other man said nervously, “I dunno. Can’t we just shoot this one?”

Kubrick glared at the other man. “This is an imposter of Jesus Christ,” he spat. “If the boy wants to pretend to be Jesus, he can die like Jesus – stripped and scourged and nailed to a cross.”

Sam thrashed desperately, struggling to break free of his bonds. The mention of a cross was a sure indication that these were the men who crucified Scott. _Father, help me, please help,_ he begged. _Lord, please, help me. Please, let Dean find me,_ please –

“None of that.” Sam huffed as he was bodily thrown to the ground. Kubrick pinned him down with one knee, pulled out a knife, and began to slice. “They called lots for his clothes,” the man said, stripping Sam of his shirt, of his sleep pants and boxers and even his socks, leaving him bare-ass naked in the dirt. “I don’t think your clothes will go for much,” Kubrick said tauntingly. “And what’s this?” He pulled the battered old rosary from Sam’s pocket and went eerily still.

Sam watched Kubrick warily, noting the man’s stony expression. “An abomination that carries around a cross with the image of the Holy Mother,” Kubrick said quietly, his voice dangerous. He drew his hand back, and Sam dropped his head backwards before Kubrick’s open palm could connect with his face. The slap still stung, and Sam gritted his teeth, glaring at the man. “You blasphemer, you’d soil a holy image like this?” he demanded furiously. “Creedy! Is the post ready?”

A moment of silence passed. “Creedy!” Kubrick shouted.

“Uh, yeah, we’re ready,” Creedy called nervously.

Sam grunted as Kubrick dragged him to his feet and hauled him forward by the wrist. A tall post stood erect in the dust, and Sam jerked desperately as Kubrick dragged him forward and bound his arms to the post, old rags and rugged twine wrapping around his wrists. The position forced him to hunch awkwardly, and a part of Sam realized that if he fell to his knees, his hands would be stretched fully above his head.

He wouldn’t give these bastards the satisfaction.

Sam had a moment to breathe before the loud crack of a leather belt sounded against his back. He stiffened, grinding his teeth and holding his breath against the gag. Crack. Crack. Crack. The belt laid across his back five, ten, fifteen times. Sam inhaled deeply, forcing himself to keep a steady pattern with his breathing.

 _Crack._ Sam nearly lost his footing as the end of the belt slammed punishingly against his back, coming down square on his kidney. He grunted as agony flared in the affected area. Yep, he’d be pissing blood for the next few days, he’d bet.

“It’s not enough.” The beating ceased for a few seconds, and Sam fought to catch his breath, steeling himself for the continued onslaught.

 _Thwack._ Sam yelped, startled, as fire lanced across his shoulders. Another strike, and he realized that Kubrick had turned the belt around and was beating him with the buckled side. The buckle lanced hard across his back, catching the top of his ass; a second blow to the same spot followed. Sam grunted as his legs gave, his knees hitting the dusty ground hard. So much for not giving them the satisfaction.

Kubrick’s breath was beginning to grow labored. “That’s it, sinner,” the man panted. “Repent on your knees, but it won’t do you any good. You’re going to Hell, with all the other false prophets like you.”

The whipping ceased only when Sam stopped jolting, his knees bloody from sliding back and forth across the gritty ground. His back burned – he’d had worse, he knew it, but _damn_ did it still hurt. Blood trickled down his skin, scattered droplets landing occasionally on the backs of his calves and his feet. The scrape of rough twine against his raw wrists was agony, and Sam was pretty sure they were bleeding too.

“Gotta keep you at least somewhat intact,” Kubrick muttered, stalking around to face Sam. “Ready to confess your sins?” He brandished a knife, and Sam flinched, but Kubrick only used it to cut the gag and rip off the tape.

His lips cracked and bled as the tape took skin and stubble with it. “Fuck you,” Sam spat, glaring at the man. “When my brother finds you –”

“He won’t,” Kubrick said, grinning. “Keep talking, demon. Keep telling me about your plans to kill us all.” Kubrick slid on a pair of heavy rubber gloves and then picked up a length of barbed wire, brandishing it at Sam.

Sam jerked backwards against his bonds. “I’m not a _demon,_ Kubrick, and I don’t have plans to kill anyone! I’m Sam Winchester. John Winchester’s son –”

“And we were told all about you, yeah,” Kubrick said, grinning. He unrolled a length of barbed wire, and oh shit, Sam knew where he was going with this. He leaned forward and pressed his forehead to the pole, but Kubrick seized him by the hair and wrenched his head back, measuring out the length and beginning to wrap the wire around his skull. “You used to be human, but now you’re just like any other demon, just another antichrist. If you don’t die and Dean won’t kill you – and from what Gordon says of your soft-hearted brother, he won’t do it – we gotta take you out ourselves. It’s God’s will.”

Barbs punctured his skin, irritating pinpricks that turned to burning needles as the wire was drawn tight. Sam bit back a yell as tiny beads of blood began to form around his forehead. “I’m not a demon, Kubrick, I’m human! Test me! Salt, exorcism, devil’s traps – test me!”

Creedy _(or whatever his name was)_ shifted uncomfortably in Sam’s peripheral vision. “We sure this is right?” Creedy asked hesitantly. “The other kid’d at least killed someone.”

“They’re demon spawn,” Kubrick said dismissively, tugging one last time on the wire and binding it at the back of Sam’s head. A droplet of blood narrowly missed Sam’s right eye, and he flinched, the motion sending pain streaking down his welted back. “They’re all killers. This one just hides it behind hunting.” Sam jolted forward as Kubrick slapped his ravaged back, the impact sending searing pain through his body. He opened his mouth to scream and choked on air. Coughing, he struggled to bring oxygen back to his lungs, his mind whirling desperately.

There was no way Sam was going to get through to Kubrick. The man was too damn obsessed. “Creedy,” he managed, panting. “Creedy, please. I’m a hunter. I’ve never killed a human.” _Don’t think about Meg. Meg was a demon. It was the Daeva that killed her host body._

“To hear from Gordon, you sure do like letting vamps live to see another night, though,” Kubrick remarked acerbically. “And how many humans do you think they killed, boy?”

“None,” Sam gasped. “They were drinking cow blood, they weren’t drinking from humans, I swear.” He forced himself to look past Kubrick and met Creedy’s eyes. “Please. I’m human – I’m _Christian,_ I’m not the antichrist! I’m a confirmed Catholic, I go to mass and confession and everything, please! You don’t have to do this!” He tried to swallow, his throat sandpaper dry. “I never asked to be psychic, and I never hurt anyone! I’m human!”

Creedy wiped his own sweating brow with the back of his hand, uncertainty twisting his lined face. “Can you – can you gag him?” he asked, looking to Kubrick for reassurance.

“Put your lady parts away, Creedy,” Kubrick snapped. “And help me with the crossbeam. He’ll be quiet soon enough – no more liar’s words coming from his false tongue.”

Something heavy, flat, and wooden pressed against Sam’s back. “Hold it there,” Kubrick ordered. His grip was like steel as he untied Sam’s left hand and yanked his arm back flush against the board. Sam snarled and strained, trying every technique he could think of to yank his arm away, but Kubrick’s punishing hands held him in place. The man secured a rope around his wrist and looped it to the beam, then made his way up Sam’s arm, pausing at the bicep. “Well, that’s an idea,” Kubrick said thoughtfully. “Keep him still, Creedy, I mean it. He’s gonna wiggle at this one.”

Sam barely had time to wonder what the man meant before hard hands clamped down around his shoulder, pushing it at a diagonal _._ For several long seconds, the pressure increased despite Sam’s struggles –

_Pop._

Sam _screamed_ as his shoulder dislocated, fire roaring through his arm and clavicle. Unbidden, tears sprang to his eyes, and he went limp as Kubrick bound the rest of his arm up to his shoulder, tying the joint out of place.

“Jeez, Kubrick.” Creedy sounded a little bit sick. “Don’tcha think that’s a little much? He’s gonna die anyways, right?”

“He’s a monster, and monsters deserve what they get.” Dazed, Sam didn’t even bother to fight as Kubrick untied his other hand. “If the mouthy sonofabitch wants to claim that he’s human, he’s _Christian,”_ Kubrick said mockingly, “spreading lies and blasphemy with that demon mouth, then I’ll show him just how _little_ I care about his excuses.”

Punishing hands on his other shoulder, and Sam tensed, whimpering as pain flared through his dislocated limb. “Please,” he rasped, tensing instinctively as he struggled to break free without aggravating the pain in his left shoulder. “Don’t.” Pressure, unyielding pressure. “DON’T!”

Another pop, and Sam was only distantly ashamed of the agonized wail he unleashed. He struggled to twitch his fingers as Kubrick stretched him as far as his dislocated shoulders would allow, and then bound his right arm tightly to the beam.

“Ah, that’s the first step down,” Kubrick said. Sam’s legs buckled and he fell to his knees as both men stepped backward, leaving him to bear the weight of the crossbeam. “Now, you walk. Get up.” Pain flashed through Sam’s side as a heavy boot met his side, and he keeled forward, the weight of the beam dragging him down. “Up,” Kubrick snarled, kicking him again. “You want to preach false prophecy and try to take the place of the Lord, then you can suffer as he did.”

Sam gasped for air, sweat and blood trickling down his brow, blurring his vision. “Not – preaching,” he managed. “Never asked – for visions – please –”

 _“Liar.”_ Another boot to the ribs. Sam wheezed, struggling to breathe. Something warm and wet trickled past his foot, sticking dust to his skin, and he realized distantly that he’d pissed himself. He wondered if there was blood in it, or if the kidney damage had yet to set in. “Witches make deals with demons for their powers, and false prophets with powers make deals with the Devil himself. Get up, you _animal.”_

He couldn’t take another blow. Groaning, Sam struggled to his feet, his foot slipping in the damp patch of mud created by his own piss. He panted, staring blearily at Kubrick and Creedy. Surely his vision shouldn’t already be going blurry? God, he was going soft. He’d been switched and beaten before, he’d had joints dislocated before, and this beam couldn’t be more than a hundred pounds. He could lift more than that when laid out with the damn flu.  God, how weak could he get?

“Get moving.” Fire exploded against his calves as Kubrick flicked the belt. Sam groaned and staggered forward, his ruined shoulders screaming as they were forced to bear the weight of the beam. The man drove him into the church with periodic lashes, bringing Sam to his knees before the doors.

“Oh, no you don’t.” Fire on the back of his neck as Kubrick lashed down hard with the belt. “Get up.”

Sam staggered to his feet, unable to hold back the whimpers. God, he was pathetic. “Y’know,” he rasped, his voice slurring, “When they executed Saint Peter… he asked to be crucified upside down, ‘cause he – he was unworthy to die the same way… as Christ.”

The belt buckle connected with his other kidney, and Sam fell to his knees again with a cry, a cry that turned to a shriek as the sudden motion jarred his ruined shoulders. “Shut up,” Kubrick snarled.

Sam panted, wishing desperately that he could curl in on himself. “If Saint Peter wasn’t worthy to – die like Jesus…” he panted, “and I’m an… abomination, why… would you think I’m worthy… of cruci- crucifixion?”

Kubrick stepped around in front of him, and Sam barely had time to close his eyes before the man whipped the buckled end of the belt at his face. He cried out as the hard metal slapped punishingly against his cheek, splitting the skin. “They say the Devil speaks with a silver tongue,” Kubrick said nastily. “Now, aren’t you just proof of that, Sam Winchester?” This time, the belt caught him in the chin; Sam bit down instinctively and tasted blood. “Get up.”

Sam gasped for breath and shook his head, his eyes still closed. “Can’t,” he forced out. “Hey… where’s my Simon of… Cyrene?”

Light burst behind his closed eyelids as the buckle struck him in the temple. “Kubrick, stop!” Creedy yelled in the distance. “You’re gonna beat him to death!”

Sam heard Kubrick panting above him, but another blow didn’t come. “You’re right,” the man said. “That’s probably just what the silver-tongued little demon wants.” Something rustled, and a hard hand gripped Sam’s chin, tilting his head up. Automatically, Sam opened his eyes, staring blearily at the cruel-faced man crouched above him. “He wants to avoid his punishment. I’ll have to remember that. It’s just so infuriating,” Kubrick murmured, “to hear him blaspheme so, pretending to be good. But, as the Bible says, ‘Satan himself masquerades as an angel of light. Is it not surprising, then, if his servants masquerade as servants of righteousness?’”

If he weren’t already nearly prostrate on the ground, he would slump. A single humiliating tear trickled down his cheek, and Sam took a deep breath. “I don’t serve the Devil,” he whispered. “I never would. Even if a demon has something – something to do with my powers… Didn’t God give us free will?” His dry throat ached as he swallowed. “Never made a deal. Never asked for this. Not hurting anyone.”

“Kubrick, can we please hurry?” Even as sick and out of it as he felt, Sam caught the tremor in Creedy’s voice.

Kubrick leaned in closer to Sam, his breath hot and foul against Sam’s ear as he whispered menacingly. “There is no indication in the scriptures that the Romans or the Jews cut anything from Christ’s body,” he hissed, “but this isn’t a true re-creation, because you are not truly Christ. Get up, Winchester, or I’ll unman you.” The man tutted quietly. “You’re lucky you were already circumcised, or I’d have done that, too.”

Sam’s balls drew up tight at the threat; he shivered, and struggled to raise his torso. Part of him wondered why he bothered; if he was going to die, why did it matter if Kubrick castrated him first?

But no, he wasn’t going to die. Dean would find him. Sam shuddered, then whimpered as the involuntary motion sent spasms of pain through his dislocated shoulders. He managed to force himself upright, his legs shaking from the strain of standing.

Creedy held open the door, and Sam managed to stagger through, his vision swimming from the agony. A tall beam stood in front of the damaged crucifix, and Sam fell to his knees – again – with a small whine. (In his peripheral vision, he realized that his collapse had smeared blood across the ripped, dusty carpeting.) One of the church walls was almost entirely caved in, he noticed, making room for an industrial crane.

He nearly screamed as one side of the crossbeam was suddenly wrenched up. “Creedy, get the other side,” Kubrick ordered. “We’ll drag this false prophet the rest of the way.”

Angry pains lanced through his shoulders as the men dragged him towards the towering beam and deposited him before it. Sam cried out as they pivoted him, pressing the back of the crossbeam against the vertical beam anchored to the stage in front of the altar. “The crane, Creedy,” Kubrick said irritably.

Sam stared hazily ahead as Creedy climbed into the crane and turned it on, slowly bringing the hook towards Sam. Metal scraped against his back as Kubrick affixed the hook to the crossbeam, and then he was being lifted, his arms first and his body following, dragging him inexorably upwards. Sam wanted to scream, but he could barely breathe, his shoulders on fire, his lungs barely able to take in air. The beam settled in a notch in the pole, and Sam jolted, whimpering.

He heard the sound of something scraping across the floor, then the _thunk, thunk, thunk_ of work boots on a stepladder. Dimly, he heard Kubrick behind him, felt the brush of rope as the man fixed the crossbeam to the main beam, wrapping the rope around and around, securing it tightly. “What should the inscription say?” the man asked jovially. “Liar? Sinner? False prophet?”

Sam could barely lift his head, but he forced himself to take a deep breath, his lungs screaming. “Fuck you,” he whispered.

“False prophet it is,” Kubrick said. “But before we nail that in, we need to nail you in.”

Sam allowed his head to loll, barely comprehending the man. Why nail him in when he was already tied?

The tap of boots on the step ladder was too loud in his ears. Kubrick dragged the ladder in front of Sam and climbed back up, brandishing a hammer and some sort of battered wooden box. Sam dragged himself up as best he could with his ruined shoulders, gasping desperately for air. “Don’t,” he managed.

“What’s the matter, sinner?” Kubrick asked, leaning forward to leer at Sam. “Don’t worry. This is nothing compared to what you’ll get in Hell.”

Fingers brushed against his left hand, holding it flat, and then something pierced his skin, thick and unyielding and oh god, the agony, shit the agony, he could feel the bones in his hand break. Sam shrieked, dragging what breath he could into his lungs, and turned his head to stare at his hand. Kubrick had nailed his hand to the cross, he realized. And the man was climbing down the ladder, and he was dragging it and climbing it again, and he was coming around to the right hand, and no, no, _no –_

Nail. Hammer. Agony. Sam screamed pitifully as Kubrick nailed his other hand to the cross. “Be glad for the ropes, boy,” Kubrick said, his voice distant. “We hung the last boy without them, and his hands ripped right through the nails. Broke all the bones in his hands, ripped his skin and muscles. He screamed like a girl – well, you did too, but still. You should thank us for our mercy.”

He could barely breathe. Sam stared in horror at the nails – more like spikes, really – pinning his hands against unyielding wood. Oh, God, he was going to die here. “Please,” he whispered, struggling to speak. “Please, can I – a priest.” He nearly choked on his own spit as he spoke.

Kubrick paused. “What’s that?” he asked slowly, dangerously.

He couldn’t just die like this. “Last rites,” Sam choked out, and it felt like blood was bubbling in his throat. “Please.” Maybe they had a priest on the payroll. He wasn’t idiot enough to think they’d grab a civilian. “Been weeks since... Confession,” he gasped.

Kubrick was silent for a moment, and then he burst out laughing. “All this, and you think anything will keep you from going to Hell?” he laughed, a deranged grin splitting his face. “Please. You’ll burn forever like the monster you are. Creedy, one of the long nails, please.”

Sam didn’t try to keep from screaming as Kubrick crossed his right foot over his left, bent his legs at the knees to push his feet up a good foot and a half, and then hammered them both into the cross. Sam’s scream was silent, that time. Kubrick supplemented the hold by wrapping the rope around his ankles and binding them tightly to the cross; from the crack, the sharp pain in his feet, and the sheer knowledge that _feet and ankles couldn’t naturally make that position,_ Sam guessed that at least a few bones in his feet had broken.

“The last psychic lasted four days before he died,” Kubrick told Sam, his eyes alight with sick glee. “I wonder how long you’ll last. I hope you last longer. I hope it burns you until you die and go to Hell.”

And then Kubrick was ushering Creedy out of the church, leaving Sam to hang alone.

0o0o0o0o0

He could only hang so long before he couldn’t breathe. When he stayed in one position too long, he couldn’t get enough air to his lungs, and he was forced to drag himself back up, struggling to balance himself on mangled arms and ruined feet to suck in tiny sips of air before sagging back down, barely enough to keep himself alive. It was instinctual, really. If only he had more control, he could allow himself to suffocate.

And he couldn’t pass out for long. Passing out only ever lasted a few seconds before he woke sputtering, dragging himself up on ravaged muscles just to inhale a few sips of air before sagging back again, too weak to hold a position. The nails dragged at his hands and feet with each lurch, worrying the small holes in his extremities, slowly splitting the skin.

Time passed strangely. An eternity passed between each attempt to pull himself up and suck in air, but when he sagged back, forever passed before he could bring himself to so much as twitch again. He’d been dying forever, he thought.

The ropes around his arms held him up, but eventually they began to fray, torn by the friction of his constant motion. Twine wasn’t enough to hold an adult human male, he thought absently. The rope burn was strangely irritating – distantly, he was surprised he noticed it through the agony. He dragged himself up again to take a few gasping breaths, and he heard fibers splitting against the rough wood.

Even when full, his lungs burned and protested.

The cross jostled slightly, and cloth brushed against Sam’s torso. Kubrick stood on the ladder, right in front of Sam and close enough for his shirt to brush Sam’s skin, for what purpose Sam couldn’t begin to image. The cross rattled suddenly; Sam cried out as the motion jerked his ravaged shoulders.

“False prophet,” Kubrick said, sounding satisfied. He pulled away from Sam, who cracked his eyes open to watch the man climb down the stepladder. “The Lord was charged as King of the Jews, and that inscription was nailed to the cross – and lo and behold, so he was King of the Jews and more, to lead the righteous Jews and righteous Gentiles to the actual truth of the Lord. Your crime is far more sinister. And so, your sin will be known to any who see this cross. May other blasphemers think twice before going out into the world to spread their lies.”

His mouth was dry, but Sam managed to dredge up a wad of spit. He spat angrily at the man, and was gratified to hear him curse as the spit hit him in the face. “Go to Hell,” he gasped.

A hand reached out and deliberately jostled his ankles; Sam couldn’t hold back a scream as sinew and bone came in harsh contact with the nail in his feet. “I am a servant of the Lord,” Kubrick growled. “Lord willing, my soul will not be bound for Hell – unlike yours. You’re already damned, Sam Winchester.”

Sam gasped, hauling himself upwards to draw in a breath. “Fuck. You,” he managed, his shoulders screaming. He slumped back down, and his arms shrieked as battered muscles _pulled,_ making every twitch agony. His lungs screamed for air, and he could feel his heart beating furiously in his chest, running on overtime.

Time dragged on, and his temples began to throb. Inconsequentially, his stomach growled, twisting and protesting its emptiness. He hadn’t eaten the day before he was taken, he remembered distantly. Right. It was hunger. He was dying slowly, and of all the damn things, he was _hungry._ Of all the stupid things. When safe and secure, he could barely remember to eat a damn granola bar without Dean reminding him, but now that he was dying he wanted some damn food? Bullshit.

The thirst became unbearable before long. Sam coughed weakly, the motion rattling his destroyed shoulders, but he had no energy to scream. His throat was desert-dry and chafing; the longer it went on, the worse it got. In a way, the dehydration was the worst, he thought distantly. He’d suffer dislocated arms, if only for a bottle of water. His stomach churned in rebellion, desperate to throw up, but he was too weak to lean forward, to vomit bile in protest of his dehydrated state, and the acidic mix in his stomach was left to beat at the back of his throat, increasing the pain and the need for water.

Hours had passed, and his throat was dry and dusty and probably burned from the constant acid reflux. His stomach had ceased rebelling, no doubt out of the sheer futility, and he was getting desperate. “Our… Father,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “Who art in Heaven, hallowed… be thy…” He coughed weakly, fluid bubbling in his throat. Blood? He didn’t know. He couldn’t tell. Maybe it was stomach acid, caught in the upper part of his digestive tract from the earlier compulsive need to vomit.

His lungs burned, and he writhed upwards desperately. The pressure of bracing his feet against the cross caused something in his feet to tear, and the nail slid slightly up his flesh, slicing. He tried to scream, but there wasn’t enough air in his lungs. His stomach tried to rebel, but gravity worked against it once again and nothing came up. He heaved in desperate gasps, to no avail; he could barely breathe.

Footsteps. “He don’t want you dying too quick.” Something soft and wet pressed against his lips; Sam’s tongue flicked out instinctively, and he sucked weakly at the sponge offered to him, pulling desperately at the scant water offered.

The sponge pulled away, and Sam wanted to cry. “Help,” he croaked. “Please.” He sagged, then cried out as the motion pulled at his ruined shoulders. “Dehydrated.”

The sponge came back, wet again, and Sam sucked desperately until the thing was dry, sour water cleansing his throat. He licked his cracked, bleeding lips. “Can’t breathe,” he managed. “Help?”

There was no response. A spasm ripped through his upper body, and he cried out as he jerked uncontrollably. Something in his shoulder tore, and a dry shriek ripped from his chest as he sagged further than should be possible. Muscles in his shoulder ripping, probably. Sam whimpered, and blinding pain shrieked through his arm as his nerve endings protested the movement of mutilated muscles. Footsteps sounded, and then the church doors closed.

He wished it would end. Squinting around the dark, empty church, he saw no movement, no speck of hope. “Nnn,” he groaned, sagging painfully in his bonds, pulling at torn muscles, only to thrust upwards a moment later as his lungs screamed for mercy.

The frayed rope holding his right arm snapped at the motion, and when he sagged back, defeated, the nail jarred against the bones of his right hand, tearing up tendons, creating pressure that threatened to break the bone. Sam choked, trying to scream, but only a gurgle exited his throat. His arm spasmed, and Sam let out a wet scream, staring blurrily at his ruined hand.

Footsteps again. “...him up!” a distant voice shouted, and something wrapped around his arm, pulling it back up and tying it to the crossbeam before the nails could break through his whole hand.

Something in him broke, and Sam burst into weak, breathless sobs, dry moans ripping from his chest as they bound him back in place. Every hitch of his chest was agony, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself from sobbing and whimpering like a fucking _child,_ making everything worse. Blinding pain spiked through his hand, beside the nexus of pain he already felt, and he turned dully to see what was happening. They were putting in a second nail, close to his wrist this time, and he groaned, allowing his head to fall forward. “Just… kill me,” he slurred.

“That’s what we’re doing, abomination.”

He heard Kubrick’s words through a hazy veil, his ears ringing. He struggled to breathe, sure that he was too weak to haul himself up again. Wood scraped against his back, inflaming the welts and wounds he’d accumulated. Only a few seconds without air, and he found himself struggling to lift his body again, wrenching in a single precious burst of oxygen before he fell back down, exhausted.

The shadows within the church lengthened and grew. The sun was setting – it couldn’t have even been eight in the morning when they’d strung him up, and night was falling.

Something in his left shoulder tore, then, but he was too tired to scream. He sagged into his bonds and allowed his mouth to fall open, fighting to bring in air. Something wet trickled down his jaw. Sweat, or blood. Did it matter?

“’ey. Here.” The sponge, again. Sam dragged desperately at the scant wetness offered to him, sucking it weakly from the sponge. They offered Jesus wine, he thought hazily. He could go for some wine, to dull his senses.

A wet cloth touched the ruined holes in his hands, and Sam screamed, breathy and inconsequential. “Ain’t gonna let you die of infection,” a careless voice said, and Sam sobbed dryly, no tears leaking from his eyes, the instinctive shuddering ripping at his arms.

Another wet sponge. Dimly, he realized it wasn’t a kindness. They were keeping him from dying of dehydration so he could suffocate under his own weight, or die of heart failure. Still, he sucked the liquid from the offered sponge, desperate to quench his burning throat.

Heave himself up, no air to scream, suck in oxygen, sag back. Unconsciousness would be a mercy, but whenever he came close to blacking out, he needed to breathe. His entire existence narrowed to the pain, to the burning wounds in his hands and feet, the fire ignited along his back, the ripping agony in his shoulders, the burning in his lungs. Everything was pain. Existence was pain.

Death couldn’t come soon enough.

0o0o0o0o0

A lash of fire to his side, the belt. Sam gasped, his eyes jerking open, to no avail – it was dark in the church.

“Thought so.” Was that Kubrick? It sounded like Kubrick. “Not dead yet, then. Good. It hasn’t even been a day.” Another stripe of fire. “You were pretty adamant on getting a priest in here to corrupt, weren’t you?” Kubrick said conversationally. “How ‘bout you confess your sins to me, then, oh-so-human boy. What are you? What are your plans to destroy the world?”

Dully, Sam stared at the hazy figure in front of him. He was pretty sure it was Kubrick. “I’m Sam…” he choked. “Sam Winchester.” He heaved himself up for another breath of air, whimpering as his ripped muscles screamed, as his hands and feet tore minutely. “Human, please,” he gasped. “I’m… human.”

“Wrong answer.” A fist connected with his side, producing a loud crunch. Dull pain flared through his side, almost negligible to the agony in his arms and chest and extremities. “Confess.”

Confess? Sam’s head lolled. “Please,” he managed. “A priest. Won’t corrupt anyone. I’ll… confess.”

Another punch, another crack. “Admit to colluding with the Devil,” Kubrick hissed. “Tell me your plans to destroy the world and bring Hell to Earth and Heaven!”

The tiny part of Sam that was still aware reared back in response to this. “No,” he managed hoarsely. “Never did... Nothing to do with the Devil.”

The silence threatened to stretch on forever. “And this is why you deserve to die,” Kubrick said finally. “That lying tongue. If I were a lesser man, you might even have me convinced.”

Footsteps. His tormentor was leaving. If only the pain would leave with him.

0o0o0o0o0

Sam didn’t see the sun rise, but he could feel the heat on his skin. Flies had begun to buzz around him, landing on his hands and feet, attracted to the blood. Sam couldn’t even twitch to drive them away. One fly landed on his right cheek, the movements of its light legs tickling his skin. Sam shook his head weakly, and the insect didn’t even budge.

He might as well already be dead. Already, decay was coming for him.

0o0o0o0o0

This sponge was drenched, sopping. “Drink,” the voice urged. Creedy. Sam sucked desperately at the sponge, unable to help himself.

“Kill me,” he whispered when the sponge pulled away. “A bullet, a knife, something. Kill me.”

The man hesitated. Sam blinked, staring, but his vision was confined to indistinct lights and darks. “Did you deal with the Devil?” Creedy asked finally, his blurry form sagging back.

Sam choked on what might be a laugh. “No,” he whispered. “Please –”

“He said the antichrist would say that.” The form staggered backwards. “Kubrick has never been wrong. You _are_ the antichrist. It takes demonic strength to go through all this and not give a false confession to end the pain.”

Something wet burst in his chest, and Sam tried to cough, but ended up choking. “Please, ‘m just human, please.” He shuddered. “Test me, test… test me, ‘m human.”

The figure trembled, and Creedy shook his head. “I – no, you’re the antichrist, I gotta –”

There was no more hope. Sam sagged in his bonds, then fought a scream as the nails ripped at his palms. He struggled upwards, taking in a breath, resigning himself to an agonizing last few hours of life, of fighting for air and sagging painfully as the pressure became too much.

0o0o0o0o0

Hands beneath his feet, propping him up. Hands, holding his arms, taking some of the pressure off. Sam stilled, confused at the lack of pressure, the reduction in pain.

“We need more rope.” Sam flinched at Kubrick’s voice. “He’s dying too quickly. He’ll last longer with more support.”

“More support? That was Creedy. “Jeeze, Kubrick, I thought we were trying to kill him!”

“Creedy, this is the antichrist.” The words washed over Sam as he inhaled deeply, sucking greedily at clean, easy oxygen. His entire body was a mass of pain, and the nails were still ripping at his extremeties, but he could _breathe._ “Besides, maybe, just maybe, we can get him to tell us his plans to destroy the world.”

“I dunno, Kubrick,” Creedy said uneasily. “This guy seems pretty human. And if he is evil, shouldn’t we just kill him instead of drawing this out? He’s not gonna talk if he’s actually working with the Devil.”

Kubrick laughed harshly. “It’s not even a taste of what he’ll get in Hell,” he said dismissively. “He may think that since he’s working with Satan, he’ll catch a break downstairs, but the Devil lies just as easily as _he_ does.” Silence, for a moment. “This boy tried to be Christ. So, we’ll end him the same way.”

Oxygen, beautiful oxygen, Sam barely heard what Creedy said next. “Well, do we have to _prolong_ his death? We can keep asking until he dies… y’know, naturally.”

“Of course we do.” Sam was too tired to flinch at the venom in Kubrick’s voice. “Look at him, Creedy! This is the face of pure evil!”

“Kubrick, man, it just looks like a dying kid.”

Sam whimpered as the support to his arms dropped, even as the support beneath his feet remained. “Don’t let him warp you, Creedy,” Kubrick growled. “Don’t let him twist you like he twisted everyone else. This man is the _antichrist.”_

“Okay, and I get it, but…” Creedy was silent for a moment. “Please, come on, man, can’t we just kill him now?”

“No!” Kubrick shouted.

“Or get a priest in here, just in case we’re wrong, shit, Kubrick, I can’t stand seeing –”

The support to Sam’s feet was ripped away, and a wet sob tore from his throat. “We’re not buying into anything this creature says!” Kubrick shouted. “For all we know, it wants a priest so it can possess him and damn more souls! I won’t take that risk!”

Sam let loose a dry sob as he tried to force himself up for another breath, and failed. His leg muscles were too tired to supplement his ruined arms.

“That thing will kill the world,” Kubrick said angrily. “So I’ll make it suffer in the process.”

“Kubrick –”

“No!”

Sam coughed, a wet noise, closer than either of their far away voices, one angry, one pleading. If only Creedy were just a bit weaker – or a bit stronger, strong enough to defy his partner, he’d have a hope. But he didn’t. Like it or not, he was gonna die here.

“If you’re so squeamish, get out of here,” Kubrick said angrily. “This thing needs to _suffer_ before it dies, and I’m gonna make sure it don’t die anytime soon.”

0o0o0o0o0

A wet sponge pressed against his lips, but he could barely bring himself to suck at it. “Shit,” Creedy muttered. “Shit, sorry, are you dead?”

“We’ll find that out easily enough.” A thrill of terror went through Sam at Kubrick’s voice.

A jolt of pain lanced across Sam’s side – a knife, probably – and he cried out miserably. “Okay, okay!” Creedy said, sounding panicked. “Not dead, that’s – that’s good.” He shoved the sponge insistently at Sam’s lips again. “Drink, please drink.”

Weakly, Sam sucked at the wet sponge. He considered asking Creedy once again to kill him, but speaking was too much effort when he knew the payoff would be so low. Besides, Kubrick would probably make him suffer for it.

The sponge pulled away, and Sam allowed himself to sag back, barely cognizant of the wooden cross irritating the wounds on his back. It would all be over soon. He’d die soon enough.

0o0o0o0o0

The sponge tasted like copper this time. Sam opened his eyes and stared hazily, but it was just a normal kitchen sponge, soaked in water, flecks of dirt scattered across the surface. Not that it mattered, really. Sam weakly pulled water from the dubious receptacle, barely enough to make even a dent in his thirst. Kubrick was holding the stick it was attached to this time, his face twisted with rage. “Confess,” he demanded.

Confess? Right – right, they thought he was… the antichrist, or something. “Yellow eyed demon,” he mumbled. If he gave them something, anything, maybe they’d kill him. He steeled himself, hauled himself up for a quick breath, then sagged back, barely even noticing as the muscles in his shoulders tore further. “Has… plans for me. Somethin’ like that.” He managed a quick, insufficient breath without dragging himself further up the cross. “Visions are all related to him. Not… sure why.”

“Good, that’s good,” Kubrick said, his voice almost soothing. The sucked-dry sponge pulled away, only to be replaced by another. The liquid in this one was salty, and the sponge was stained brown. Sam’s heart sank, and just when he thought it couldn’t get any lower. It was broth. Feeding him meant they were keeping him alive for longer.

God, he just wanted to die.

“Tell me about these plans, boy,” Kubrick ordered, his eyes shining.

Sam allowed his head to fall forward and whimpered as the position pulled at his arms. “Dunno,” he managed. “Evil.”

“Of course they’re evil,” Kubrick snapped.

Sam barely managed to shake his head. “Dad told Dean…” He paused to catch his breath. “If he can’t… save me he has… to kill me.” Sam hauled himself up for air and bit back a cry – screaming was oxygen he couldn’t waste. “So, guess I’m… evil. Dunno what I’ll do but it’s…” God, breathing was such a pain in the ass. He hauled himself up again, allowing himself the comfort of a self-pitying whine. “It’ll be bad.”

Kubrick pulled the sponge away, and he didn’t replace it this time. “I knew killing you was the right choice,” he said smugly.

“Please,” Sam managed. “Please, end this. A gun, or… something.” His next attempt to push himself up only caused the nail in his feet to slip more.

Kubrick laughed, a harsh, grating sound. “I don’t think so, antichrist,” he said. “No mercy for something demonic. You’ll hang here ‘til you die, then you’ll burn in Hell.”

Sam groaned, closing his eyes. When he opened them again, it was dark, and he was alone.

0o0o0o0o0

“Oh my god!”

The voice was shrill, high. Not Kubrick, not Creedy. Sam forced his eyes open, but even then, he could barely see more than hazy shapes. A light smear stood before him in the darkness, no discernable form. Sam sagged back, then immediately felt compelled to lift himself and drag in air, groaning as the nails ripped at his flesh again.

“Yes, no, please – um, an old church off Winston street? I – can’t you track my location?! I – no, no, please hurry, there’s this guy, he, please hurry –”

He needed to breathe again. Sam forced himself upwards, gulping desperately, taking in air.

“No, it’s an emergency!” The high voice – female, he realized – was on the verge of tears. He should comfort her. “He – he’s, someone crucified him, I mean literally, like actual nails and cross and – yeah. Yeah. The old abandoned church. Please hurry.”

She was distressed, Sam realized distantly. He hauled himself up for another breath. “Y’kay?” he managed, before slumping.

“W-what?”

She was just a girl, he thought hazily. Just a kid. Maybe his age, at the most. She shouldn’t get mixed up in this. “Y’need help?” he managed, and he was out of air, and he forced himself up again. The hole created by the nail at his feet was getting dangerously large, he realized. Much more, and he wouldn’t be able to use his legs to go up for breath. The ropes around his ankles just weren’t tight enough to provide adequate support.

He’d suffocate. Finally.

“Oh, oh God, help’s coming, I’m so sorry,” the woman babbled. “I shouldn’t’ve – I mean I’ve had these dreams for weeks, I thought it was just nightmares, like, I watched The Passion of Christ with my friends last month so like obviously that’s where it came from, then I found out the one guy I dreamed about was _actually_ crucified and was _dead,_ and I said ‘hey Ava, what about the new guy you dreamed gets crucified?’ But I thought I was just paranoid and – hey, stay with me!”

Her words washed over him, and he could barely comprehend them. But she seemed nice, even if when she touched him, her hands against his legs jarred his feet. Sam hauled himself up and took a few breaths, then sagged back down. What a nice girl, coming out just because of dreams –

Dreams.

Sam went rigid, then cried out as the nails bit into his hands and feet. “You – what’s your name?” he panted desperately.

“Hey,” the woman said, and soft hands were on his knees and lower thighs, and fuck, it was a kind touch, and he kind of wanted to cry. Or maybe he already was crying. Yep, that was water on his cheeks. He was surprised he wasn’t too dehydrated to cry. Those sponges must have held more than he thought. “Hey. I’m Ava.”

If she’d had dreams forseeing this, then she was psychic. Kubrick and Creedy were killing psychics. Crucifying them. And she was a civilian, she couldn’t handle being crucified – even he couldn’t handle it. “Ava,” Sam slurred. He tried to speak again, but fuck – he pulled himself up to grab more air. The nail in his feet pulled, pulled, tore, and he screamed weakly, sagging back as the nail ripped through more flesh. The damn thing was nearly as close to his toes as it was to his ankles, just from all the sawing, ripping motions. “Run,” he managed weakly, breathily. “They’re killing us. Y’got dreams, run.” She was a damn _civilian,_ she couldn’t survive this. “We’re psychics. You gotta run. They‘ll string you up like me.”

The girl didn’t move. “You’re delirious,” she said, “but it’s okay. Paramedics are coming, and they’ll get you down, and – your feet!” she gasped, seemingly noticed that the nail had ripped at least a few inches up and down. “No, no, stay okay, it’s only a few minutes and you’ll go to the hospital, damnit, be okay!” A flash of pale movement. “Why would I see this if you won’t be okay?!” she screamed. “You can’t die! Why’d I dream about you if you’re just going to _die?!”_

“Hey!”

Sam choked, his arms spasming, as Creedy’s voice boomed through the church. “Little girl, what are you doing here?”

The pale smudge straightened. “Who are you?” she demanded. “Did you _do this to him?”_ she shrieked, enraged.

Silence, for a long moment. “He’s the antichrist,” Creedy said finally. “Please leave, little girl. If he lives, he’ll kill us all.” He hesitated. “He even admitted to being evil, and dangerous.”

The light smudge seemed to vibrate, and Sam closed his eyes, the motion making his head pound. “No,” Ava said angrily. “No! You stay away from him!”

“Girl, don’t make me –”

“I already called the cops!” Ava screamed. “And I’ll tell them to arrest you, I will! You’ll go to jail forever!”

A long pause. “We’ll catch him again, and we’ll make it even worse,” Creedy said, his voice far away. “Okay. Okay. I’m leaving now. But we’ll be back for him, and it’ll be even worse next time. It has to be – like I said, he’s the antichrist. I was unsure at first, but I know that now. You should call off the cops and walk away.”

A strangled laugh echoed through the church. “You’re a psycho,” she spat.

“I’m not, little girl,” Creedy said, and he sounded sad. Sam hauled himself up to breathe, not bothering to fight the groan. “We’ll be back for him.” The church doors creaked shut as Sam allowed himself to slump back down, his arms and hands in agony.

Footsteps sounded, and then something brushed lightly against his legs. “The – the nail in your, in your feet is loose,” Ava said tentatively. “Do, um, do you want me to pull it out?”

Sam tried to shake his head, then cried out as the motion sent spasms of pain through his ravaged shoulders. “I’ll – suffocate,” he managed. “If I can’t… pull… m’self up… c’n you take me down?”

Warm contact, human skin, came against his legs. “I don’t know how,” the girl said, and Sam was surprised that he was aware enough to recognize tears on her skin. “If I get the ladder and try to take some of the pressure off your arms, will that help?”

It would stop the nails from ripping at his hands, if she could manage to support his weight. Maybe he’d even be able to breathe, before she inevitably dropped him. Sam nodded, biting back a moan. “Please,” he gasped.

Several long minutes, an eternity, and then gentle hands lifted his body and closed in a supportive hug around his torso. Ava’s grip held him against the cross, keeping the nails from ripping at his hands and his muscles from tearing further. His back screamed at the pressure to the welts, but it was nothing compared to the agony of crucifixion. The girl had to be fairly strong, to hold him up, and the feeling of kind, well-meaning hands supporting him was enough to let him nearly relax. He took a deep, shuddering breath, a breath that actually didn’t rip at his feet or tear at his arms. “Thank you,” Sam whispered. His eyes itched, but he’d already cried more tears than he safely could, and he refused to let dehydration take him before he could be saved. “Thank you.”

0o0o0o0o0

Sirens. He heard sirens in the distance. Ava’s small hands were warm on his pectorals as she helped hold him aloft, keeping the pressure off his hands, allowing him to breathe. His shoulders screamed, but that was the least of his worries.

Louder sirens, too loud, lights that penetrated closed lids. Sam bit his lip, whimpering as the sensations crashed through him, overstimulating. “Are you the one who made the call?” a male voice called, garbled yet also too loud.

“Yes.” Ava slumped, and Sam whimpered as his torso followed, his shoulders screaming. “Please, please help him!”

Hands, too many hands at his ankles. “Sir,” a voice said, at once too loud and too distant. “I’m going to remove the nails from your hands and feet, then I’m gonna cut your limbs free, all right?”

He whimpered. He couldn’t make himself vocalize anything else.

“Okay, let’s get him down.” Sam cried out as the cross jarred his body, moving minutely. He screamed as the paramedic carefully worked the nail from his feet, sticky with blood and grit. A second paramedic took up work on his right hand, and Sam whimpered, biting his lip and tasting blood.

After too long, the nails were out and the ropes had been cut from his ankles. Carefully, the paramedics cut the rope from his arms, and Sam slumped forward, allowing them to bear his entire weight. “Step down together?” one of the paramedics, a woman, suggested.

“Each step on three,” her partner added. “One, two, three.”

Sam groaned as the motion peeled his body from the cross, ripping open wounds that had congealed. “Jackson, we need a third person at his feet!”

Gentle hands closed around his ankles. Together, the paramedics took the stepladders one step at a time. Sam watched through hazy vision as they carefully lowered him onto a thick, adjustable stretcher positioned at the bottom of the cross. He whimpered as his abraded back came in contact with the stretcher.

“You’re doing great, honey,” the lady paramedic said reassuringly. “Can we get your name?”

Sam groaned, unable to stop himself from shivering, from jerking his arm muscles. “Sam,” he managed. “’m Sam.”

“Okay, Sam. We’re gonna wrap your hands and feet for now, and we’ll have the doc take a look at them at the hospital, all right?”

Sam forced himself to nod. “My shoulders?” he whispered.

“Jackson’s gonna radio in that we need a specialist in the OR ASAP, in case you need surgery. For now, my partner and I are gonna reset your shoulders, okay?”

“Mm,” Sam murmured in response. “Do it.”

Bright pain flared once, twice, and the searing agony in his arms faded to a dull, insistent throb of pain. Sam relaxed slightly, a whine of relief escaping his lips. He was too tired to be humiliated.

“Are you allergic to any antibacterials?” the man asked.

“No,” Sam said quietly.

“Okay, then, we’re going to apply some antibacterials to the wounds in your hands and feet before wrapping them.” Sam nodded; he winced at the cold sting of antibacterial medication against his wounds, and the following pressure of gauze being wrapped around them.

“Skip, make a note that his wounds are gonna need to be flushed and treated properly,” the woman said. Sam cracked his eyes to look at her. She looked a bit like Jess, albeit at least ten years older than her, he thought hazily. Jess was gonna help people like this too. “Sam, we’re going to cut the wire from around your head, now all right?” the woman asked gently.

“Please,” Sam whispered. The crown of thorns, such as it was, had been the least of his problems for a long while – but he still wanted it gone.

They lifted his head slightly, enough to access the crown at the back. Wire cutters sounded twice, then he heard the sticky sound of barbs being peeled from his skin. The paramedics dabbed antibacterial paste in the worst of the wounds and then laid him back down on the stretcher.

“Okay, Sam, we’re gonna get you into the ambulance now,” the man said, his voice comforting. “We’re going to take your vitals on the way to the hospital. While we do that, can you give me your height, weight, age, blood type, medications, and any allergies or history of illness and injury?”

God, that required him to think. “Sam... Antilles, 23 years old,” he managed finally. “Six-four, and… maybe 140, 145 pounds? Type O blood. No meds. Mild – mild dust allergy. Broke my arm when I was a kid, had a concussion a few months ago. Just got a cast off my right hand from a minor break.”

The paramedic nodded. “Gotcha. You’re underweight, so we’ll have to adjust your dosages,” he said. “We’re gonna move you on three, all right? One, two, three.”

Sam’s stomach lurched at the motion and he retched pitifully, a few drops of water and bile dribbling down his chin. Gross.

The paramedics wheeled the stretcher into the ambulance and secured it to the floor. Once he was secure, the male paramedic cleaned the sick from Sam’s face with some sort of wipe. “The girl who called this in asked to ride with you to the hospital. Is that okay?”

Ava. Right, the soft pale smudge who defended him. “Yeah,” Sam managed. “Also, call my… my brother.”

“You want your brother?” the man who’d been speaking to him asked gently.

Dean only knew he’d left the motel room. “Please,” Sam moaned, his voice hitching as he was jostled. He didn’t quite feel the pain, but he knew that was due to hospital-grade painkillers. “D- He’s in my phone.” Almost too late, he realized he couldn’t give them Dean’s name. They were supposed to be wanted criminals.

“We don’t have your phone Sam,” he said quietly. “Whoever did this to you, they took your phone.”

Right. They’d taken his clothes, why not also take his phone. He’d miss that purple dog shirt, he thought hazily. “Need to call him,” Sam said hazily. “He’ll be worried.”

The male paramedic shushed him. A slim woman entered the ambulance, then the female paramedic closed the ambulance doors and took a seat beside him. “We’ll get his contact info as soon as you’re stable,” she said quietly. “Can you tell us what happened?”

Breathing was hard enough. They’d rescued him, why would they make him do anything, make him talk? But they needed the info. Sam took a deep, ragged breath. “Kubrick and Creedy,” he said, then took another few deep breaths. “Called me the antichrist. Not the first they did this to.”

She nodded sympathetically, no judgment. Her counterpart wrapped a blood pressure cuff around his aching bicep and carefully inflated it.. “Do you know how long they had you?” the female paramedic asked quietly.

The sun had been up, then set, then risen, then Ava found him after it set again. “Less than two days?” Sam guessed, after a few breaths. “Hurts,” he added. “They… They gave me water. And some broth. Didn’t want me to die quick.”

The cuff around his arm deflated, and the male paramedic took a moment to read the numbers. “Blood pressure is 100 over 40 – Anya, I’m gonna have Jackson call in that he’s gonna need a blood transfusion.”

“Got it,” the female paramedic – Anya – said quickly.

The man unstrapped the cuff from Sam’s bicep and went up front to pass Sam’s blood pressure readings to the driver. Anya shifted slightly and turned back to Sam. “They had you for a few days, then?” she asked quietly.

It was only an eternity. “Yeah,” Sam managed.

Anya nodded. “Good, Sam. That’s very good. Now, I know you want to rest, but can you tell us what other injuries you sustained?”

That was easy enough. “They… whipped me,” he managed. “With a belt. Mostly the buckled end. Mostly upper back, but I took a few blows to the face, neck, and kidneys.” He took a few breaths, trying to re-inflate his lungs. “They wrapped barbed wire around my head. Dislocated my arms, stretched them out far as they could, tied me to the cross. Made me carry it into the building. Strung me up. Then nailed my hands and feet, then broke my feet to tie my ankles.” He shivered. “Whipped me again, a bit. Punched me in the ribs. My hand… almost tore through the nails, so they nailed it back again.” _Think._ “Felt like a few muscles tore in my chest. I think… think that’s it.”

“Can you breathe properly?” Anya asked. “We can give you an oxygen mask, if you’re having trouble getting enough air.”

Sam wanted to laugh. _Buddy, I’ve been suffocating for at least a day, this is like being in a damn oxygen tent._ “I don’t need it,” he said aloud.

“Okay,” Anya said gently. “Let us know if you can’t breathe – bang on the stretcher if you have to. Get some rest. You’ll go into treatment as soon as we get to the OR.”

Sam wanted to argue, but he was so tired. He was tired, and he could _breathe,_ so surely it was safe to sleep – but he couldn’t know that. It could be a trick. “I want my brother,” he said finally.

Anya shushed him. “We’ll find a way to contact your brother when you’re stable,” she said quietly.

It wasn’t enough. “Won’t sleep without him,” Sam said. “Keeps me safe.”

The only figure in the ambulance not dressed in a uniform shifted and let out a tiny sob. Sam turned his head towards her, noting her slim build, round face, limp brown hair. “Ava?” he guessed, his voice cracking.

The woman covered her mouth with her hand as she nodded. “Yeah,” she said shakily. “Yeah, that’s me.”

She looked like she was about to cry, Sam thought to himself. “Thank you,” he whispered, his hand twitching as he tried, and failed, to reach out to her. _“Thank you.”_

A tear slid down Ava’s cheek, followed by another, and another. “You-you’re welcome,” she said, her voice choked. She reached for him, then pulled back, raising her hands as if scared to touch him. “And, and you’re gonna be just fine, all right?”

Would he be fine? Distantly, Sam took stock of his injuries. They’d taken his word and hadn’t hooked him up to oxygen, which was a good sign. They were also talking surgery on his shoulders, and apparently were getting a specialist in at the OR. The nails in his hands had torn the skin and might have even cracked bone, but he didn’t think any of his tendons were irreparably damaged – he could still twitch his fingers, if he tried. His feet –

He didn’t want to think about his feet. The nail hadn’t gone all the way through to his toes or up to his ankles, but it had ripped through skin and muscle, and he damn well knew his bones were broken, probably in multiple places. There had to be nerve damage somewhere. Sam shivered – what if he never walked again? Shit.

He took a deep breath, and took stock of other issues. The lack of oxygen probably hadn’t done his lungs or his heart any favors, and the stress of maintaining that position had probably done a number on his kidneys, even with the limited movement he’d had. That meant that the old Winchester coping mechanism of burying injuries in alcohol was out of the question, damnit. In the background, his back screamed with and burned in agony, he had no doubt that some of the deeper whip marks may be at risk for developing infection. His face throbbed where he’d been struck with the belt buckle, but he could open his eyes fully, so probably nothing in his face was broken. Muscle tears were no joke, but those would heal in time. He was probably dehydrated, and the broth was the only thing he’d had to eat in longer than Kubrick and Creedy’d had him, so it was possible that they’d declare him malnourished. They’d already said he was underweight.

The need for surgery on his shoulders was the most worrisome. It didn’t seem like this was going to be just a day or two in the hospital. He probably wouldn’t die, now that he was off the cross and out of immediate danger, but he wondered if full recovery was even possible.

It was hard to gauge the passing of time, but Sam would estimate that nearly 30 minutes passed before the ambulance pulled in at the hospital. Made sense, he thought – the area around the church was definitely rural. He was probably lucky that it was only 30 minutes out.

The male paramedic opened the doors when they finally parked in the OR ambulance bay, and he was wheeled towards a waiting gurney, lifted and laid gently on crisp, clean sheets. A nurse rushed to take the place of the paramedics before they were even ten feet away. “Okay, Sam,” she said, her voice almost unnaturally gentle. Practiced bedside manner, probably. “Doctor Igwe has been informed of your condition and has been prepped to do surgery on your shoulders. Do you consent to this?”

Of course he did – he knew enough field medicine to know that this was going to take more than just popping his shoulders back in. He wasn’t getting full use of his arms back without professional intervention. “Okay,” Sam said quietly – what else could he say?

“Between surgery and physical therapy, you should gain close to full use of your shoulders,” the nurse said, keeping close with his stretcher. “We’ve got a specialist coming in to do surgery on your feet after we take care of your arms, all right?”

Again, what could he do but nod? “Yeah,” he said.

“No allergies to general anesthetics, right?” the nurse confirmed.

Well, most of his experience in medicine was with a bottle of whiskey and a poker face, but hey, if he died, at least it wouldn’t be on a cross! “’M good,” he said.”

The nurse nodded and whipped out a set of forms. “You probably don’t have enough use in your hands right now to sign these, so if you could just – she produced an ink pad from somewhere – “put your thumbprint on the signature line of each form?”

Sam nodded, and let the nurse press his thumb to the ink, then to the signature line of each form. The nurse then wheeled him directly into an operating room – damn, either this podunk hospital was in a _really_ clean part of town, or he was worse off than he thought. He’d expected at least _something_ of a wait. The nurse fixed a mask around his face while a dark skinned doctor in scrubs and a lab coat prepped herself for surgery. “Breathe in and count back from 100,” the nurse said kindly. “100, 99, 98…”

0o0o0o0o0

Coming back to consciousness was like swimming through mud, unpleasant and painful. Something was jammed up his nose, he realized. Thick heaviness surrounded his hands and feet, and he couldn’t move his shoulders if he’d wanted to. Blearily, Sam blinked himself awake, and stared at the half-drawn white curtain and off-white wall before him.

Shit, that’s right, he’d ended up in the hospital.

“You’re awake?” a timid female voice asked. Sam turned his head, careful to not dislodge the cannula or jostle his IV. Seeing her properly, she was wide-eyed and round faced and pretty, in a girl-next-door way. She smiled when Sam met her eyes, slumping in relief. “Oh, God, I was so scared you wouldn’t make it,” she said, her voice cracking. “I… I saw you hanging and I thought I was too late, and you…”

Damnit, he didn’t want this girl to cry. “Hey,” Sam said gently, grateful that he didn’t have a tube down his throat. “Hey, Ava, right?”

The girl looked up, all red-rimmed eyes and held-back tears, even as she tried to twist her lips into a smile. “Yeah, that’s me,” she said, her voice wet.

“Ava, you saved my life,” Sam said. The heart monitor beeping in the background was proof of that. “They had me almost two days.” He swallowed hard. “I… I think they said the guy before me lasted four days.”

Ava’s eyes welled over, and she dropped her head, closing in on herself. “I d-dreamed about h-hi-him,” she sobbed, burying her face in her hands. “I thought it, it was a nightmare, b-b-but I could have saved h-him,” she wailed miserably.

Sam’s heart ached, and he longed to get out of bed and wrap her in his arms. He couldn’t, though – he could barely twitch. “Ava,” he said loudly, trying to break through her tears. “Ava!”

Ava looked at him, her face covered with splotchy pink patches, eyes red and irritated. “Y-yeah?” she sniffled.

“Ava, it’s not your fault,” Sam said quietly. “I ignored my first few visions. I think we all do. But you – you checked up on me on a whim, and you _saved_ me.” Unbidden, a raw laugh ripped from his throat. “Wish I’d been able to save my girlfriend, after I dreamed her death.”

Ava bit her lip, her eyes watering, and leaned forward to lay a hand on Sam’s mattress, shy of touching him. “I still wish I got there sooner,” she said, her voice wavering.

Sam offered her a tired smile. “You saved my life,” he assured her. “I’ll leave the semantics behind, if it’s all the same.”

Fat tears rolled from Ava’s eyes. “Yeah, well, maybe if I’d gotten there sooner, I could have stopped them before they did anything.”

Those thoughts only led to the road of self-hatred – Sam knew that. “Ava,” he said quietly. “The guys who got me… they were professionals.” He swallowed hard. “They would’ve probably hurt you. You saved my life. I can’t ask for more than that.”

Ava exhaled, a tiny sob escaping her mouth. “I was so scared,” she confessed, and her hands did find his, then. Sam let her hold his hand gently, her fingers careful to avoid the medical dressings. “I, I thought you were gonna die, I thought you _were_ dead at first, who _does_ that to someone?!”

Unbidden, Sam felt his lips turn up in a tiny smile. “Crazy religious fanatics,” he said softly. “They thought… they thought I was pretending to be Jesus, or something.” This girl was a psychic, so she was probably connected to the demon, but like _hell_ would Sam burden her with that tidbit of knowledge. “They weren’t gonna be stopped. They were trying to kill me slow, and you stopped them.” Sam met her eyes and tried to smile genuinely. “I’d be dead if it weren’t for you. Or I’d still be on that cross, dying, without anyone to stop them. You _stopped_ them, Ava.”

Fat tears rolled down Ava’s cheeks. “I-I’m so glad you’re alive,” she said, her voice choked with emotion. “I can’t believe this is real.”

Sam twitched his fingers, relieved to still have some degree of motion, and stroked her palm. _“Thank you,”_ he repeated, smiling at her.

0o0o0o0o0

Ava’s fiance showed up a few hours later, wild-eyed and white faced. Sam consented to let him into the room when asked. Apparently, he’d been privy to Ava’s dreams, and seeing a living, breathing result of her nightmares shook him. The fiance, Brady (Sam had once had a friend named Brady, a good man), waited until Ava was asleep in her chair before talking to him.

“She dreamed about you,” Brady said, his voice flat, but nonconfrontational.

Sam nodded. “She told me,” he said, staring at his bandaged hands.

“Do you…” Brady hesitated. “Do you know what’s going on?”

Sam bit back a laugh, but looked the man in the face. “You love her, right?” he asked.

“Would I be marrying her if I didn’t?” Brady asked fiercely. “What’s going on?”

Easing civvies into reality was never easy. “Do you believe in psychics?” Sam asked quietly. “Actual psychics, not phone-line frauds.”

Brady chuckled humorlessly. “She told me about my aunt dying three hours before it happened,” he said flatly. “She described our next-door neighbors a day before they moved in. I know she’s psychic.”

That made things easier. “There’s a demon,” Sam said quietly. “A demon that touched all of us psychics at birth. It connected us. She saw me because of some demonic connection.” It raised a question about Brady’s aunt and neighbors, but Sam was too tired to think about it.

Brady was silent for a long while. “Okay,” he said finally. “And?”

Sam didn’t understand. “And, what?” he asked.

“So she got touched by a demon and became psychic. She’s a good person. She seems to think you’re a good person. So what – what does this demon shit mean? How do I…”

Sam tried and failed to prop himself up on his elbows; he finally collapsed, defeated. “What, protect her?” he asked finally. “Keep salt on hand always. I’ll give you the number of a guy, Bobby Singer, who can help with keeping demons away.”

“And the visions?” Brady asked. “They hurt her. I need them to stop.”

Sam tried to fight back a laugh, and ended up coughing and coughing and coughing instead. “Sorry, but if we could protect against everything, there’d be no need for hunters,” he said. “People who fight the supernatural,” he clarified when Brady’s brow furrowed. “I’ve known about this stuff since I was a kid, and I can’t stop the visions.”

Brady nodded, frowning. “Is she in danger?” he asked.

Sam stared at Brady for a long time. He probably wasn’t a threat, he decided. “They came after me because I’m psychic,” he said finally. “She found me for the same reason.” Brady’s eyes flickered with fear – good. “Keep her away from anything supernatural,” Sam said quietly. “And keep quiet if she has prophetic dreams. I’m glad she saved me, but she’s in danger as long as she’s having visions.”

Brady swallowed hard. “I won’t let anyone lay a finger on her,” he said fiercely.

Sam offered a tired smile. “Good,” he said. “We’re not evil, or bad, but the people that took me…”

Brady scowled. “They’ll have to go through me first. I’m not letting her out of my sight after this.” He chuckled humorlessly. “She always did want me to spend more time with her friends. Guess I’ll be doing that, if I go with her to their girls’ nights.”

Sam relaxed back into soft pillows and cushy bed, the dressings on his back shifting softly. “Good,” he said. “Keep her safe. Hopefully she won’t catch their interest, and she can live like any other psychic. I know a few psychics that don’t seem to have any sort of connection to demons, and they live pretty normal lives.” Maybe normal was stretching it – Missouri had seen fit to help with the poltergeist case, and all – but this girl hadn’t gotten in too deep yet. She still had a chance.

0o0o0o0o0

After nearly three days in the hospital, he received a visitor of his own. “Sam,” one of the nurses said, poking her head into his room, “a Robert Plant is here, claiming to be your brother.”

Sam bit back laughter. Robert Plant – seriously? “Wonder how he found me,” he said. He’d played at not remembering his brother’s number after his ordeal, to keep them from finding out that Dean was a wanted criminal.

“Different fathers, I take it?” the nurse asked, smiling. Right – Sam had told them his last name was Antilles.

“Mom kept her name,” he said with a shrug. “Rob got Dad’s last name – my parents were pretty big Led Zep fans, and all,” he said. “I got my Mom’s last name.”

The nurse laughed lightly. “I’ll send him in,” she said, and closed the door.

Less than five minutes later, the door swung open again. The smile dropped abruptly off Sam’s face; Dean was pale and sweating, his hands trembling, staring at Sam with wild, desperate eyes. “Sammy,” he whispered, crossing the room in only a few steps. He dropped to his knees beside Sam’s bed and closed his hands around Sam’s wrist, carefully avoiding the damages. “Sammy, oh my god.” He dropped his head and pressed his face against the side of Sam’s bed.

Sam stared in shock as a tear, an actual tear, slid down his brother’s cheek. “D-Rob?” he managed, barely remembering to use the alias. The nurse was just outside the door, after all.

To her credit, the nurse took a step back. “I’ll give you two some privacy,” she said gently, and closed the door.

“Dean?” Sam asked carefully. “Dean, are you... Are you okay?”

Dean looked up, and Sam inhaled sharply – his brother’s face was shiny, slick with snot and tears that just kept coming. “Ellen called,” he said, “two days ago. Said two hunters were in the bar complaining about how, how someone interrupted them fuckin’ _crucifying_ you. Guess they saw Ellen start coming to talk to them, ‘cause they hightailed it out of there before she could even get out from behind the bar.” He took a deep, shuddering breath. “The one was saying it was okay, ‘cause you were pretty much dead already.”

Sam sighed and twitched his fingers. Dean let go of his wrist, and Sam gently raised his hand to his brother’s face, resting his fingers against Dean’s cheek. Rather than jerking back and teasing him, Dean leaned into the touch, and that more than anything told Sam that his brother was hurting. “They got close,” he said. “But I’m gonna be okay. Mostly, anyways,” he said, making a face. “Apparently I’m gonna need physical therapy on my shoulders once they heal enough, and I’ll be in special-made shoes forever, but I’m going to be _okay,_ Dean.” He smiled weakly. “A little nerve damage to my arms, hands, and feet, but physical therapy can fix a lot of that.”

Dean nodded desperately, and then he was on his feet, leaning over Sam to grip Sam’s face between his hands. Despite the awkward angle, Dean pressed his forehead against Sam’s. “I thought you were dead, I thought they killed you,” he babbled. “I was so scared, Sammy, so scared, don’t you _ever_ do this to me again!”

Sam reached up to awkwardly pat Dean’s shoulder with the uninjured heel of his left hand. “I’m not dead,” he said gently. “C’mon, Dean, have a little faith in me. You think a couple two-bit hunters could take me down?” He decided not to mention that without Ava, he surely would have died on that cross.

Dean laughed, a wet, miserable sound. He settled back on his heels, and though his eyes were still watering, when he met Sam’s eyes his gaze was iron. “Got names?” he demanded.

In any other circumstance, Sam would protest, would talk his brother out of revenge – but as long as those assholes were out there, Ava was in danger. Andy was in danger. Hell, even _Missouri_ was probably in danger, and she probably wasn’t even connected to the demon. “Kubrick and Creedy,” he said. “Those were the ones who wanted to crucify me. Not sure if they’re first names or last names, but I know someone who will know.”

“Who, Sammy?” Dean asked. Sam _really_ should remind him that it was Sam, now, but he decided to let it go. Dean seemed like he was barely holding himself together.

“Gordon,” he said, meeting Dean’s eyes. Looking as closely as he was, he could see the sudden jolt of understanding, the flicker of rage.

“Sam.” Dean swallowed hard. “How is Gordon involved – what did he do to you? Tell me.”

Sam nodded. “He broke into my hotel room. Knocked me out – probably chloroform. Brought me to those assholes. Apparently, he owed Kubrick or something.” Sam shook his head. “Still, he told me if it were up to him, he’d have just shot me. He still wanted me dead.”

Dean growled. Sam ignored him and continued on. “In a way, maybe I should thank him. If he’d just shot me, I’d be dead. Instead, I got a few days of torture, but I’m going to live.”

“That bastard,” Dean snarled, clenching his fists. “I’ll rip the _skin_ from him!”

Sam laughed tiredly and shook his head. “I’ll settle for a bullet in his brain and a walk through his contacts to get to Kubrick and Creedy,” he said. “And,” he added, as a thoughtful look crossed Dean’s face, “a _clean_ death for both of them. I mean it, Dean. I don’t want revenge.”

Dean scowled. “Okay,” he said finally. “But I can kill them?”

Sam nodded. “I’m not safe while they’re alive. Neither is Andy, or Missouri.” He hesitated. “And – and the girl who found me, Ava, she only knew where I was because she had a vision. She’s not safe from them either.”

Dean nodded. “Should send her a gift basket,” he said absently. “Guess I know who I’m gonna be hunting while you do your physical therapy,” he said, a tiny smirk gracing his face.

Sam nodded. “Yeah,” he said. He hesitated before asking his next question. He knew how Ava had found him – how had Dean? “Dean, I’m technically listed in the hospital as a John Doe, even though the staff all think my name is Sam Antilles,” he said carefully. “Apparently, they did that for my protection. But it means I know you couldn’t find me by my name or my aliases. So, how did you find me?”

Dean’s lips quirked in a tiny smile. “Dude was probably another psychic, or something,” he admitted.

Sam raised an eyebrow, and Dean sighed. “Look, I thought you were dead, and I wanted to – I dunno, connect with you or something girly like that, so I went to a damn church,” he admitted, disgruntled. “This dude came in. Weird little dude in a suit and backwards tie and giant-ass trench coat. He kept staring at me, and when he came over to me, I was all prepared to tell him I was straight –”

“You know, the more you insist that every time a guy breathes near you, the more people wonder,” Sam couldn’t help but quip.

Dean rolled his eyes. “Shut up, bitch,” he grumbled. “Anyways, I was gonna let him down easy, but instead of hitting on me, he said he knew where my brother was. Gave the name of the hospital and said to say I was looking for Sam Antilles. Left before I could say a damn word.”

Some guy just… told Dean where he was? “Dean, do you really think this guy is another one of the psychics?” he asked.

Dean shrugged. “Maybe,” he said. “Aren’t they all like your age, though? This guy was probably in his thirties,” he said. “Could be a Missouri-type psychic,” he said after a brief pause.

“Can you get a description to Ash?” Sam asked. “Maybe he can do… something.”

Dean snorted. “Yeah, sure. Tall-ish caucasian dude in his thirties with dark brown hair and blue eyes, _that’s_ unique.” Dean shook his head. “The man’s good with a computer, but he’s not _that_ good.”

Dean had a point. Sam could think of at least two nurses and a janitor who fit that description in this hospital alone. “Right,” he said.

0o0o0o0o0

Dean stayed in town and visited the hospital for a solid week before taking off on a tip from Ellen about Gordon’s whereabouts. A spiteful part of Sam hoped that his brother would be able to kill the bastard, but somehow, he doubted it. Gordon was slippery. If Dean could at least pull info on Kubrick and Creedy from Gordon’s phone, that would be enough.

The next week, Bobby visited him, not bothering to use an alias. Sam only had to hear Bobby’s name before approving him for visitation.

The grizzled old hunter looked simultaneously lost and determined as he sat down at Sam’s bedside. “Gordon Walker’s been blacklisted from the hunting community, as far as I have reach,” he said without preamble. “So have Brandon Kubrick and Mitch Creedy. They get none of my resources, and the guys who trust me know to shoot ‘em for coming after you like that.” He offered Sam a haggard smile. “I find out who their friends are, they either get a come-to-Jesus moment or a bullet, depending.”

It was nice to have full names, and even nicer to know that Bobby had his back. “How are things going, Bobby?” Sam asked.

Bobby snorted. “Quiet, without the dog,” he said, his voice tinged with a bit of sadness. “And it’s a damn hindrance that I can’t call you and your brother in.” He shook his head. “Dean’s busy going after human monsters, and you – you just gotta get back in fighting shape, however long it takes.”

However long it takes indeed.

0o0o0o0o0

Three months and too much physical therapy later, Sam was finally cleared for discharge. He’d have been out earlier if he hadn’t developed a persistent infection in his left hand only a week after Bobby’s first visit, but with that cleared up, he was free to go. Bobby had rustled up a manual wheelchair from one of his contacts and had forced Sam to swear that he’d keep off his feet while his wounds healed. The thing was too damn small, and he couldn’t really wheel himself with both arms in slings, but Sam didn’t dare risk the wrath of the in-house physical therapist by removing them, even though he was pretty sure he could use his arms for small tasks after all his work. Bobby had agreed to take care of Sam while he recovered anyways, like they didn’t already owe the man too much.

The staff had given him a recommendation for a good outpatient physical therapist just outside Sioux Falls, and had helped him set up his first appointment; that card went in Sam’s new wallet. The other card, the one he didn’t want to even _think_ about, got shoved into his jacket pocket, just as soon as his discharge clothes were dropped off. He’d deal with it later.

Bobby picked Sam up at the curb and helped him transition from the wheelchair to the passenger’s seat of a rusty old Chevelle. “Gettin’ too damn old to lift lugs like you,” Bobby grumbled, rubbing his back and reaching out pull the seatbelt across Sam’s lap.

Sam’s cheeks burned in humiliation. “Yeah, well, we’ll pay you back when you get old,” Sam said, trying to muster up some humor. “Watch us carry your crippled old ass around when you’re eighty.”

Bobby snorted loudly. “Boy, you think I’m gonna make it to eighty, you strongly overestimate both my hunting skills and my liver,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Idjit,” he added fondly, closing the door.

Only a few seconds later, Bobby climbed into the driver’s seat and started the car. They drove in silence for a few minutes before Bobby turned to meet Sam’s eyes, a brief glance before looking back at the road. “Your brother caught up with Gordon,” he said quietly. “The man’s dead. Shot right in the head. Guessing you told him to kill them clean, did’ya?”

Sam nodded. He wanted to feel bad about Gordon, but he only felt relief. “Yeah,” he said. “Kubrick and Creedy?” he asked.

Bobby scowled and rolled his eyes. “Hiding like cowards,” he spat. “Hunters ain’t demons – we don’t get off on pain. We put actual monsters down clean. Those men tortured a human and got their jollies from it, no matter all the religious mumbo-jumbo they use to justify it. They’re as good as monsters, and they know they can’t show their faces to me or Dean, or any of our friends, any time soon – not now that we know what they are.” Bobby smiled wryly. “But we’ll get them, boy. They can’t hide forever, and we’ll take them down. Cleanly, like you wanted,” he added hastily. “We ain’t savages like them.”

0o0o0o0o0

That night, in Bobby’s guest room, Sam finally pulled out the card he’d been avoiding. It was a recommendation for a community mental health clinic that offered both therapeutic and psychiatric services. Shrinks and super-shrinks, Sam thought wryly. Like they’d messed him up that badly. He wasn’t crazy, and Winchesters didn’t do shrinks. He’d be drooling at the mouth and babbling to the air before he went there.

He’d seen a psychiatrist in the hospital anyways, a single session three weeks in, when they’d moved him to a new room, a room with a crucifix on the wall. Sam had frozen, unable to breathe, and the sudden activity from his heart monitor had sent several nurses and one of the doctors running into his room. A panic attack, the psychiatrist had said during their session, not too uncommon in people with PTSD.

Please. Sam scowled and ripped the card into tiny pieces, careful not to move his shoulders. This was probably more motion than he should allow his arms without professional supervision, but there was something cathartic about destroying the card, getting rid of the evidence. If years of hunting monsters and facing down the supernatural hadn’t given him PTSD, like hell had two days with some punk-ass religious fanatics.

He was fine, damnit. Physically, he’d recover just fine, and like _hell_ would he let this crap affect him mentally. He wasn’t that weak. He wasn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback and corrections are welcome, please. I have done a lot of research, but I am sure I have messed things up.


	5. Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam recovers as best he can. From giving a kill order to resuming hunting, he regains back his life - and he won't let his brother be damned for eternity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Re: a conversation Sam and Bobby have at the start of the chapter: alcohol is not an adequate coping mechanism. If your therapist is named Jim Beam or Jack Daniels or some other alcoholic beverage, please seek out actual help (unless you have an actual therapist named after alcohol, in which case, condolences to your therapist). Booze is not mental health care, no matter what Bobby says in my fanfics (and I wrote it this way to stay in character, because despite how all the Winchesters and Bobby really need therapy, they won't get it).
> 
> I'm keeping this fic at M rather than E. There is a point where Sam goes home with a woman from a bar, and things start to get a bit graphic, but since the actual sex is not described in detail and only a tiny bit of sexual content is present, I'm keeping it M.
> 
> Uh, casual sexism, cissexism, and ableism are present in this chapter, because this is an SPN fic and the source material is riddled with all that nonsense.

 

“Y’know, Sam, it’s Sunday,” Bobby said abruptly one morning, nearly two weeks after bringing Sam into his house. “Just thought you might like to know.”

Sam nodded without looking up, staring blankly at the book of protection spells in front of him. He didn’t remember anything from the past ten pages – not that it mattered. As far as he knew, the only way to completely ensure that Kubrick and Creedy didn’t get their hands on him was to kill them, and the slimy bastards were pretty good at hunkering down, it seemed.

Bobby shifted uncomfortably and cleared his throat. “I… Well, I’m not exactly the church-going type,” he said, “but if you want, I can dust off my old suit and go to a service with you.”

Sunday. Church. Right. Sam snorted and shook his head, allowing his hair to fall in front of his eyes. “I’m good, Bobby,” he said quietly.

“You sure?” Bobby asked. “Used to be, that was important to you.”

Sam didn’t bother to look up. “Yeah, well, that’s before I got strung up by a couple religious psychopaths who thought I was the antichrist,” he said. The open page swam before his eyes, and he swallowed back nausea. “Sorry if I ended up a bit jaded towards religion.”

The chair next to him scraped as Bobby pulled it out and sat down. Sam tensed and clenched his fists, dropping his head further to allow his hair to obscure his face. “You’re a shit liar, boy,” Bobby said, his voice flat. “One of my bibles is missing, and I damn well know it’s under your pillow. And don’t think I don’t see you mutter your little blessing before you eat, when you bother eating, that is. So clearly, it’s not that you’ve gone agnostic. How about you try again, and without the bullshit this time, boy.”

It was funny, the way his fingers tingled when he clenched his hands tighter. “Yeah, fine,” he muttered. “I just don’t want to be in a church right now, all right?” Maybe if he kept staring at the book, he’d light it on fire with his mind.

…Actually, that was a concerning possibility. Sam forced his head up and stared at the wall instead. “I don’t want to sit in a building and stare at a cross for an hour, and think the whole time about how I know what it feels like.” He laughed humorlessly. “How you know, crucifixes have the nails put in wrong, always in the hands and feet. That nail almost ripped through my hand, even with ropes to support it.”

Bobby swore quietly, and Sam glanced at him quickly before looking back at the wall. If he concentrated, that coffee stain almost looked like a cat. Interesting. “I still believe in God, Bobby. I just don’t want to go to church.”

“Balls,” Bobby muttered. He was silent for a long moment, and Sam turned his attention to the other stains on Bobby’s wall. It couldn’t possibly be unintentional, how much that one looked like a parrot. Maybe Bobby’d gotten drunk one night and decided to paint with whiskey. The nonsensical thought made Sam’s lips twitch.

“You know,” Bobby said, his voice halting, “there… there are people you can talk to. People who don’t do much but talk for a living. Might want to look into it.”

Sam snorted derisively. “Seriously?” he demanded. “It’s not enough that the doctors thought I might, might have gone cuckoo from this, now you’re on the ‘Sam’s crazy’ train?”

He might have expected the cuff to the back of the head. “Would you say that if it was a damn civilian?” Bobby demanded. “Way I’ve seen it, you Winchesters deal with bad things by getting drunk and getting into fights –”

“And you, what, go to some smarmy dude in a suit when you’re upset?” Sam snapped. A part of him felt like he was being unfair – he’d known plenty of people in college to use the counseling center, and none of them were particularly weak.

This felt different, somehow.

Bobby snorted. “You kiddin’ me? I see a shrink called Jack Daniels,” he said, and Sam could nearly hear the man rolling his eyes. “But your kidneys are still shot and you can barely hold a pencil, much less a gun. You don’t got your normal ways to handle trouble, so maybe you should try the civilian way.”

Sam scowled and awkwardly wheeled around to meet Bobby’s eyes. (If his physical therapist knew he wasn’t using the slings, he’d give Sam hell, but Sam couldn’t stand having Bobby wheel him around the house.)

Bobby met the challenge in Sam’s eyes with his own stubborn gaze. “You got a better plan than moping around my house, scratching up my floors and eating – or _not_ eating – my food, then let’s hear it, ya idjit!” the man demanded.

“I’ve been doing research,” Sam snapped. “Protection spells. Warding spells. Freaking _tracking_ spells, and their counters.”

“Yeah, and the whole time, you’ve been moping around while you do that. Can you even remember anything you’ve read?”

Sam narrowed his eyes. “Bobby, I’m fine,” he argued. “I’m just… taking a little while to get back into researching. I’m a bit rusty from a few months without it.”

Bobby slumped somewhat, the wind seeming to go out of his sails. “I’ve got half a mind to drag your gimp ass to the car and make you see a shrink anyways,” he grumbled. “Okay, compromise,” he said. “You keep sulking around all day, pretending to research. I keep pretending I don’t got Edgar Allen friggin’ Poe living in my house. In exchange, you eat every day, you got it?”

Sam frowned. _That’s a bizarre request_ , he thought. “I… okay?” he said finally.

“I mean it,” Bobby said fiercely. “No more of this whole, this ‘going three days without food ‘til I jam a burger down your gullet’ thing.”

Sam blinked in surprise. He’d certainly been unnerved by the vehemence with which Bobby had shoved a hamburger at him yesterday, ordering him to eat and watching him until it was gone. “I didn’t eat for three days?” he said, confused.

Bobby snorted. “I know exactly what food’s in my house at all times. When your brother comes over, it’s like a whole pack of starving orphans raided my fridge. Now? Sam, you realize you’ve been here two weeks and only eaten about six times? And then, only when I made you?”

He hadn’t realized. “I’m not doing it on purpose,” he said, frowning. “I just… forgot. I haven’t been hungry.”

Bobby folded his arms across his chest. “Well, fine,” he said. “You just make sure you remember, this time. You slip up, and I’m dragging you to a shrink, because not eating’s also not such a good sign of…” Bobby snorted. “Mental health, I guess it is. Or physical health, mind. If your brother’s likely to die of a clogged artery at forty, at this rate, you’re likely to starve yourself to organ failure.”

Sam felt the blood rising in his cheeks. “Way to make it sound like I’m some anorexic 14 year old girl,” he mumbled, dropping his eyes to stare at his hands.

“Yeah, well, I know you ain’t, but I am still damn worried,” Bobby said. “Your organs aren’t in great shape. You gotta eat right.” He smiled tightly. “Besides, Dean’d kick my ass if you got any skinnier on my watch, and while I’ve got guns and good aim, he’s got youthful vigor on his side.”

Sam snorted at that. “You’ve got a point,” he admitted.

One of Bobby’s many phones blared in the kitchen, and Bobby rose from his chair. “Hold that thought,” he said, striding out of the room. “Singer,” Sam heard him say as he picked up the phone.

Sam looked back at the book and flipped back several pages until he got to where he’d stopped paying attention. “Uh-huh,” Bobby said. A long pause. “You sure?” he asked again.

A pause, and Bobby re-entered the room with a cordless phone in his hand. “It’s your brother,” he said, his voice eerily blank. “I’ll put the phone on speaker,” he said, and pressed a button.

Sam swallowed hard. “Dean?” he said.

 _“Heya, Sammy.”_ Dean’s voice crackled through the earpiece of the phone, grainy and slightly distorted. _“Good news – that piece of shit, Kubrick, is dead. His little friend Creedy came crawling out of the woodwork, said he’d tell me where Kubrick is if I spared his life.”_

Sam inhaled sharply. Kubrick was dead, and damn if that wasn’t a weight off his mind. But – “So, Creedy’s still alive,” he said, his voice trembling.

 _“For now,”_ Dean said. There was a thump, and someone yelped in the background. _“Say hi, you piece of shit.”_

Creedy’s trembling, oddly-pitched voice warbled through the phone. _“H-hi,”_ he said shakily, his voice cracking.

For a moment, Sam couldn’t breathe. Fire flared through his shoulders, the pain almost as vivid as it had been at the time. He remembered rough wood igniting his ruined back, inflaming wounds that had healed as raised, knotted scars. He remembered sour water trickling down his throat, foul and disgusting, a relief in comparison to everything else. He remembered nails ripping through his hands and feet, tearing the skin and breaking bones. He still couldn’t walk, and his feet would always be tender. His hands would heal, in time, but they would always be slightly numb.

He now had free access to air, but hearing his tormentor’s voice, he almost felt like he was suffocating again.

 _“So, Sam,”_ Dean said, jerking Sam out of his reverie. _“I took him alive, and I put a bullet between Kubrick’s eyes – clean, like you wanted.”_ Dean inhaled sharply, the sound crackling through the speaker. _“I took this bastard’s deal with the terms that I wouldn’t kill him, but as I figure, it’s up to you if I honor that deal or not.”_

Sam forced himself to take a few breaths to calm down. Could he ever be safe, with Creedy out there? And what about the other psychics? Ava, and Andy – they deserved to be safe. And it’s not like they could hold Creedy to a promise to not come after them.

Sam couldn’t take the risk. “He’ll go after more people,” he said, his voice shaking.

 _“No!”_ That was Creedy, his voice distant in the background. _“No, I won’t, I swear I won’t, I-I’ll retire from hunting, I’ll leave the country, please!”_

A laugh ripped from Sam’s throat. “How many times did I beg just like that?” he demanded harshly, addressing Creedy. “Dean, make it quick,” he said. “Don’t let him suffer. We don’t want to sink to their level.”

_“No –”_

_Bang._

Sam sat, frozen, through the next few silent seconds. _“It’s done,”_ Dean said, his voice heavy. Sam didn’t blame him – his brother had wanted revenge, but killing humans was a lot harder than killing monsters, Sam guessed. _“I can be at Bobby’s in 16 hours, less if I ignore the speed limit. That okay?”_

Sam glanced at Bobby, who nodded. “Sure thing, Dean,” he said quietly. He thought about the gunshot, about Creedy’s abrupt silence, and hoped he hadn’t made a huge mistake. Somehow, the relief he’d expected hadn’t come.

0o0o0o0o0

Dean rolled in shortly after midnight. Sam’s eyes itched and hung heavily – he’d been awake since four in the morning, and while he could keep going if he had to, part of him screamed for sleep. He let Bobby answer the door, too tired to wheel his way over. In any case, his arms had started to ache around dinner (which he had eaten, to Bobby’s approval), and he was back in his slings.

“Hey, Bobby.” Dean sounded exhausted. Sam tensed slightly at the footsteps, and Dean made his way into the living room. “Hey, Sammy,” he said, collapsing on the couch with a sigh.

“Hey, Dean.” Sam jerked his body awkwardly in an attempt to lurch the chair forward.

Dean held up a hand. “Don’t bother,” he mumbled. “I’ll probably pass out in a few minutes. Been a couple days since I slept."

Sam frowned. “What do you mean?” he asked.

Dean shrugged. “I mean that I’d been up almost 30 hours and was getting ready to crash when Creedy called me. Another ten to get Kubrick. Another hour before I killed Creedy, two to take care of the body, 14 to get here.” Dean huffed a laugh. “So I’ve been up… 57 hours, give or take a few minutes?”

Sam swallowed hard. “Okay,” he said. “We can talk when you wake up, then.”

Dean collapsed face-first onto the couch. “Thanks,” he muttered.

Sam frowned – he’d been sleeping on the couch more often than not, to escape the humiliation of having Bobby carry him up the stairs to the guest room proper. But Dean needed the sleep. Loath to wake his brother, Sam managed to extricate himself from his slings, wincing as his shoulders twinged, and wheeled into the library, where Bobby sat, pouring over an enormous tome.

Bobby looked up at the sound of squeaking wheels. “Lemme guess, your brother passed out on the couch?” he said, quirking an eyebrow.

Sam flushed as he nodded. “Yeah,” he mumbled, staring at his feet, jammed awkwardly into the wheelchair’s footwell.

Bobby nodded. “Well, I’ll carry him upstairs,” he said, rising with a groan. He smirked when Sam gave him an odd look. “Look, I gotta haul one of you upstairs, may as well be Dean. He can get himself back down when he wakes up – you can’t,” he said, shaking his head. “You keep sleeping on the couch. I don’t want to be dragging you up and down the stairs if I don’t gotta.”

Embarrassed, Sam ducked his head. “Thanks, Bobby,” he mumbled.

“You got it,” the grizzled old hunter said. “Damn, it’s like I’m running a hotel,” he joked as he made his way towards the living room. “I oughta start charging you rates.”

Sam shrugged. “I mean, if you want –”

“No, and you shut your mouth,” Bobby said, grinning at Sam. “I’ll take my payment in favors, thanks. I’ll just call you boys up for the real nasty hunts.”

Sam chuckled and wheeled over to the couch. Carefully, he began the awkward process of transitioning from the wheelchair to the lumpy old cushions. “G’night, Bobby,” he called.

Bobby grunted in response, and Sam smiled as he pulled the worn afghan from the back of the couch over his body. His palms tingled slightly where they met the fabric, sensation not quite fully restored.

He realized, as he relaxed back against the couch, that he felt _safe._ Gordon had been dead for weeks, and now Kubrick and Creedy were gone. Dean, the killer of Sam’s tormentors, was here and was ready and willing to protect Sam – even as he languished helpless in a wheelchair.

Thinking of it that way was almost humiliating. Sam closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

He was safer than he’d been since Gordon took him. Something like relief seeped through his veins – there it was, the feeling that hadn’t come just from the intellectual knowledge that his kidnappers were dead. Apparently, he needed to see their killer to believe it. For the first time in months, he slept easily.

0o0o0o0o0

For several months, Dean came and went, always stopping at Bobby’s between hunts. Sam focused on physical therapy and dove into research, and eventually, the slings came off for good. A week later, he was able to ditch the wheelchair, though his podiatrist sent him home with a number of shoe inserts and a strong warning to only ever wear custom shoes. He included, with the warning, a card for a bootmaker in Kansas who would be able to accommodate his foot size and the need for ankle support, to compensate for any lack of feeling.

He could hold a gun, aim, and shoot, and the fact that his numb hands tingled in protest only meant so much. He was ready. The nerve damage wasn’t going away entirely, but he knew his weaknesses enough to compensate for them.

When Dean picked him up in the Impala, it felt like coming home.

0o0o0o0o0

_A giant version of Kubrick loomed over him, taller than the cross, leering down at Sam as he hung in oddly-distant agony. “You got anything to say for yourself, sinner?” he asked, caressing Sam’s cheek mockingly with a strangely normal-sized hand._

_Despite the lack of oxygen, the words flowed freely from Sam’s mouth. “You’re not my priest,” he said._

_“I am your confessor,” Kubrick said, stripping off his shirt to reveal a clerical collar. “Three humans died on your orders.”_

_Sam shifted against the cross, and noticed distantly that the scrape of wood against wounds really only tingled. “That’d be the nerve damage,” Kubrick said, as if reading Sam’s mind. “Good thing your nerves will still work in Hell.”_

_Sam nodded – that seemed reasonable._

_“It’s time to let you down now.” Sam glanced behind Kubrick – huh, how had he not seen Creedy before? The man stepped forward; in the light, Sam could see a bullet hole neatly boring through his head. The brain was visible, strangely intact – maybe they hadn’t killed him after all._

_Creedy grew taller as he walked forward; he pulled Sam off the cross with a pop, and Sam realized he’d been held up with suction cups. “Smart,” he remarked, gesturing with one unharmed hand at the setup._

_“We’ve been saving you,” Kubrick said dismissively. He was normal height, now. When did that happen?_

_The door to the barn (wasn’t it supposed to be a church? He’d thought it was a church. Weird) swung open. Ava walked proudly to the center of the barn, her eyes glittering yellow. “That’d be for me and mine, Sammy-boy,” she said, speaking with Sam’s father’s voice. “You’re gonna wish you’d died on the cross.”_

_Before Sam could respond, the room flashed and he was pinned to the cross, this time with nails running the entire length of his arms and legs. The room flashed again, and he stared down at the floor in horror as the cross rose and tilted, pressing flat against the barn ceiling. He gasped, thrashing desperately and watching blood ooze from the wounds. Beneath him, Ava grinned, something inhuman. Her face rippled, morphing into Mary Winchester’s face, and she snapped her fingers._

_Sam screamed as agony ripped through his veins. The fire roared all around him, crisping his skin and filling the room with the sickening scent of roasting meat._

_“Forged in fire, die in fire,” Mary said, smiling at him as he burned. “It was always meant to be this way, Sammy. Don’t fight it.”_

_Sam screamed, wrenching desperately. Nails clattered to the ground as he dislodged them, but he was still stick, still pinned to the cross and the ceiling like a butterfly in a collection, consumed by the heat and the stink and the pain._

“Sammy!”

_“Sammy!” Mary called. “Come find us in Hell!”_

“Sammy, god damnit, wake the fuck up!”

_He’d felt his eyes melt, so why could he still see? Why wasn’t he dead yet?_

An icy sensation crashed over him without warning, and Sam jerked abruptly to a sitting position, gasping for breath as he took in the brown walls and avacado-green carpeting of the shit motel they were staying in. Dean stood above him with the now-empty ice bucket, his eyes wide and wild. “D-Dean?” Sam demanded, his heart thumping furiously against his chest.

Dean didn’t say a word as he put down the ice bucket and took a seat at the foot of Sam’s bed. Sam absently swept the ice around him to the floor and watched his brother curiously. Dean was shaking slightly, and his freckles stood out sharply against his sheet-white face.

“Shouldn’t have listened to you,” Dean said abruptly. “I should have carved them up slowly, for what they did to you,” he said. “None of ‘em deserved a clean death.”

Sam shook his head. “Dean,” he said gently. “I… I didn’t want them to suffer. I just wanted them gone.” He offered a tiny smile. “Killing them slowly wouldn’t stop the nightmares.”

Dean wrapped his arms firmly around his stomach. “Maybe not yours,” he said tightly.

Sam frowned. This was all wrong. By now, Dean should be laughing this off as a chick-flick moment, maybe making some sarcastic comment about Sam waking him up. “Dude, it’s done,” Sam said, searching Dean’s stricken face. “Compartmentalize and move on, right?”

Dean laughed at that, a sick, raspy sound. “Compartmentalize, yeah,” he said roughly. “Dad’s advice. Nice words, coming from a man who never compartmentalized in his entire damn life,” he said bitterly. “No, all our lives, things went the way they did because he couldn’t put Mom into a compartment and move on,” he said, staring at the floor. “And I can’t put you in a compartment and move on.” He glared at the floor as if willing the ugly carpet to move away.

He was silent, for a beat. “You didn’t wake me up, you know,” he said abruptly. “I was already awake. I’ve had the same damn nightmare almost every night for the last, what, seven months?” He cleared his throat. “The same dream, one where that girl never found you. Sometimes you’re dead when I get there, and you’re rotting on a damn cross.” He cleared his throat again, and Sam would never mention that it sounded suspiciously like a sob. “Sometimes, you die right when I get there. Sometimes, I get you down, and you die anyways. Either way, you always die, and I can’t – I can’t do it, Sammy, I can’t go on if you’re dead.” Dean blinked rapidly and shook his head.

The air left Sam’s lungs as if he’d been punched. “I didn’t know,” he said quietly. He hesitated – he and Dean weren’t that much for physical comfort beyond the occasional manly hug – and then laid a hand on his brother’s shoulder. Dean sagged against his hand, some of the tension leaving his body.

Sam swallowed hard. “I…” he began, struggling to piece together his thoughts. “I knew you thought I was dead, and I knew you hated what they did to me, but I…” He paused. “I didn’t realize it’d messed with you this much.”

Dean snorted. “’Course it did,” he muttered. “D’you know how shitty it is to hear that the most important person in your life is dead, and you can do fuck-all to change it?”

Sam tightened his grip on Dean’s shoulder. He did understand, better than Dean probably realized – it wasn’t that Jess had been _more_ important to him than Dean, but she’d been important on a similar level. Losing her had put holes in him that would never heal, but at least he’d had Dean to lean on in the immediate aftermath. Who would Dean have had? Bobby, maybe, but Bobby would’ve been grieving him too.

Dean sagged abruptly. “Fuck, I can already feel my new vagina growing,” he joked weakly, and something in Sam relaxed, because _this_ was the Dean he knew.

“It’s okay, Dean,” Sam said, squeezing his brother’s shoulder once more before releasing his grip. He got the hint from that quip – serious talk over. “I mean, we all know how much you love lady-parts – I’m sure you’ll come to enjoy yours.”

Dean laughed and cuffed Sam’s shoulder. Sam winced instinctively, even though the joint no longer hurt so much as it tingled. “Bitch,” Dean said.

“I mean, you’re the one who’s growing a vagina –”

Dean picked up a half-melted piece of ice from the blankets and lobbed it at Sam. “Just for that, I’m not gonna offer to switch beds with you,” he taunted.

Sam hadn’t been planning on going back to sleep anyways, but he laughed nonetheless. “As if you’d offer that in the first place,” he joked.

Dean shook his head, a tiny smile crossing his lips. “Yeah, well, I guess you’ll never know,” he said lightly.

Sam shook his head and pushed aside the cold, sopping blankets. “I’m gonna go for a run,” he said, stretching as he stood. “Care you join me?” he asked, grinning in anticipation of Dean’s answer.

Dean stared at Sam for a few solid minutes. “I’m gonna commit you to a funny farm,” he said finally. “You have permanent foot damage, and you’re going _running?_ If I were you, I’d be milking the damage for a handicapped sticker for the Impala.”

Sam snorted and rolled his eyes. “I have high-quality running shoes with personalized foot inserts,” he said. “But hey, it’s nice to know that when a wendigo is after us, I only have to outrun you.”

Dean nodded agreeably. “Whatever you need to tell yourself. I, meanwhile, am going the fuck back to bed like a sane person.”

Sam chuckled. He changed quickly into shorts and a ragged old T-shirt, then slid on his ankle-support socks and customized running shoes. He took one of the motel keys with him, then left his brother to sleep while he worked off excess energy.

0o0o0o0o0

It was only during his cooldown that Sam let himself think back on the dream. It was stupid, really – it had only been a dream, a nightmare resulting from his crucifixion. Most of it was old hat – he regularly dreamed about Kubrick and Creedy, or about the tortures he’d gone through. Sometimes his dreams involved them finding him again, sometimes it rehashed the crucifixion, sometimes it was some swirling dream nonsense that he could barely remember.

Ava entering the dream was new. The image of his rescuer coming in with yellow eyes – that was unsettling. And then, she’d morphed into _Mom…_

It was nothing. Just a weird, incoherent dream. Sam fixed his eyes on the motel in the distance and picked up his walking pace. Cooldown wasn’t a synonym for slacking, after all.

0o0o0o0o0

Saint Veronica’s Catholic Church. The lizard-brain part of his mind screamed just to look at it. It was a stately building, made of light brick and located in respectable suburbia, not a rundown clapboard structure in rural nowhere.

He took a deep breath, gathered his nerves, and walked inside. Foot over the threshold, right into some _very_ strong AC. His shivers had nothing to do with the low-grade fear that thrummed in his veins. Nothing at all.

Compared to the churches Sam was accustomed to, it was fancy. The polished foyer held a stone well of holy water and branched out at several doors into various hallways. A large, open archway led into the church proper, all polished wood pews and plush carpet. The stained glass windows depicted beautiful scenes of faith and passion, colorful and expertly carved statues lined the steps to the altar, and graceful archways were carved symmetrically into the brick walls. It was a lovely building, Sam thought hazily.

He’d appreciate it more, he was sure, if he could take his eyes off the enormous crucifix centered at the back wall.

At least ten feet tall, the giant image of Jesus was twisted in romanticized pain. The crown of thorns rested on his head, not digging in, cutting, burrowing against bone. Tiny droplets of discreet red graced his hands and feet, but the rest of his body was clean and unmarred. Even the modest cloth around his waist was a meticulously clean white, and the muscles etched into the figure showed no signs of strain. Jesus’s face was one of rapture, not pain, and Sam felt a surge of irrational anger.

This was a cross designed for people to look upon, to praise Christ’s sacrifice and talk about how _good_ it was. This depiction meant _nothing._ What would these people think, Sam wondered, if they saw the back of a man scourged for a crime he did not commit? If they knew that Jesus had probably pissed himself with pain, the way Sam had. That suffocation and agony did not come with a beautiful gasp, but with a red face and desperate pants and nails that ripped bloody tunnels through the skin when placed incorrectly.

But no, such a depiction of pain did not belong amongst pristine stone walls and stained glass and soft, rich carpet. Sam slid into one of the pews and dropped to his knees, not bothering with a kneeler. He stared at the cross and let bile bubble in his stomach, sickening him.

Without thinking, without praying, he knelt for hours. Twenty minutes in, a suburban housewife-looking lady entered the church and cast a frightened look at him before entering a side-chapel; a pimply teenager left as she entered. She left an hour later, replaced by an old man. Prayer cycles, devotionals. He’d heard of those. Keep someone in the church in prayer at all times. How nice.

The old man left when a young mother-and-son duo took his place. Sam looked up at the cross and gritted his teeth. It was wrong, it was all wrong, just a squeaky-clean image for squeaky-clean civilians. The remnants of his fear soured into disgust, and he rose abruptly, not bothering to genuflect on his way to the foyer.

He did not dip his fingers in the holy water or cross himself when he left the church.

0o0o0o0o0

Another day, another truck stop diner. Another sad house salad, droopy greens and mushy tomatoes, about an entire bottle’s worth of dressing dumped all over the thing. Sam picked up a piece of wilting lettuce between two fingers and grimaced as he wiped the dressing off with a napkin.

“Toldja you should’ve gotten a burger,” Dean said, spewing tiny chunks of masticated meat across the table.

Sam wrinkled his nose. “Dude, can you not?” he asked, glaring at his brother.

Dean raised an eyebrow, then deliberately took another bite of his burger. “Nope,” he said cheerfully, his mouth full. Sam winced as a piece landed dangerously close to his plate. Oh well. He hadn’t wanted to actually eat the damn salad, anyways.

He’d have to do something equally gross to Dean, in retaliation. Maybe he’d dump Dean’s socks in the toilet. Dean had done it to him, once, when they were younger – it was strangely horrifying to get up for a nighttime piss and realize too late that you’d ruined your only clean socks.

Then again, even Dad had said Sam was justified for waking Dean up with a pummeling after that incident, so it was probably going too far. He’d find something else.

“Dude.” Dean had swallowed before speaking this time, at least. “Didn’t you hear me?”

Sam scowled. “Sorry, I was distracted by you spewing your food all over the table,” he snapped back. “You know, for a guy who complains about the most miniscule stains in motel bathrooms, you can be pretty nasty.”

Dean shrugged. “Wow, Sammy, you might prove yourself to be a man after all!” He paused for a moment, and Sam knew, he just _knew,_ that Dean was about to make some dumb joke. “I mean, ‘cause the ladies all _love_ it when I’m nasty.”

There it was. Sam groaned and slapped a hand over his eyes. “Hopefully not the ladies you’re friggin’ related to,” he retorted, and then realized that he’d given Dean ammunition to keep calling him a girl. Shit.

“Okay, Samantha,” Dean said, cackling. “Anyways, I _said_ you should order something else. That salad looks gross, and not just ‘cause it’s salad.”

Sam looked down and grimaced. “You’ve got a point,” he said, raising a hand to flag down their waitress.

The waitress, bottle-blonde and stinking of cigarettes, made her way slowly over to them. “You need something?” she asked abruptly, the no-nonsense behavior of a woman too accustomed to strange men either calling her over to yell at her or hit on her.

“Uh, yeah,” Sam said. “Can you take this back?” he said, gesturing towards the salad. “I don’t need it comped, I just changed my mind. I’d like a cup of your chicken noodle soup, please.”

Something in the waitress’s face unfroze at the word ‘please.’ “I’ll take the salad back,” she said, “but between you and me, you don’t want the chicken noodle. Chad spat in it when a table told him up front he wasn’t getting a tip, then ordered it for the group.”

Dean choked, his eyes widening, and Sam nodded. “Uh, good for Chad,” he said, reaching absentmindedly across the table to pat Dean on the back. “Is the minestrone safe?”

The waitress nodded and grinned. “You bet,” she said. “I’ll get you a cup of that, then.”

“I want to add,” Dean wheezed, still trying to swallow the remnants of his bite, “that you are definitely getting a tip. Like.” He coughed. “Thirty percent, minimum. Maybe more. Definitely more. Please tell me no one did anything to my burger.”

The waitress chuckled. “Your burger is safe,” she said, “and I’ll check that the minestrone is still good before I bring it out, sound good?” Sam nodded, and the waitress whisked his sad salad away from him.

“Dude, I think I lost ten years of my life,” Dean said, his face pale. “I mean, eating something with someone’s spit in it? Gross.”

Sam raised an eyebrow at his brother. “Dean, you practically spat in my salad,” he pointed out.

Dean had the decency to look embarrassed, and said nothing.

Sam scanned the diner, and saw only one male server, busy bussing a table. That was probably Chad. “Gimme a sec,” Sam said, standing up and walking over to the man. “Hey – Chad, is it?”

The man looked up warily and squinted at Sam with bloodshot eyes. “Manager’s Tasha, if you’ve got a problem,” he said.

“No, it’s not that,” Sam said. He reached for his wallet and pulled out a twenty. “Two things,” he said, laying it down at the table. “One, people who don’t tip suck, and I’m glad you got revenge. Two, sometimes the people who _do_ tip are going to unknowingly order the spit-soup, and I owe a lot to your kind coworker who warned me when I tried to order it.”

Chad’s ears went pink. “Aw, man, I’m sorry, dude,” he said, ducking his head. “They make it in bulk, I wasn’t thinking. Should’ve just spat in the bowls before bringing them out.”

Sam snorted. “Good plan for the future,” he said. “But seriously, that’s for you,” he added, gesturing at the twenty. “I got a good laugh out of my brother’s face when your coworker told us that story.”

Chad laughed nervously at that, and pocketed the twenty. “Thanks, man,” he said, nodding at Sam before turning back to the table. Sam snickered, then made his way back to his table.

Dean was sitting still, staring distrustfully at his burger. “What if she’s lying, Sammy?” he asked plaintively. “What if I just ate a burger with spit-sauce?”

Sam rolled his eyes. “It’d serve you right for spewing it across the table, but I’m pretty sure you’re good. I talked to Chad, and I didn’t get the impression that he spat in anything else.”

Dean nodded, his face still slightly green. “I don’t think I want to finish this,” he said as the waitress walked out, bearing a cup of minestrone soup.

Sam smiled at the waitress as she set down the soup. “Thank you,” he said, wrapping a hand around the cup. It was lukewarm, but that was pretty normal in truck-stop dives of this quality. “Can we get the check?”

“You’ve got it,” the waitress said, grinning.

Dean glared at the table as she left. “Maybe I wanted pie,” he said petulantly.

Sam shrugged and lifted the cup of soup, pouring the whole thing down his gullet in one gulp. It sat heavily in his stomach, but he’d gotten the eating process over with quickly. “D’you trust the pie here?” he asked. “Man, we’ll stop somewhere else to get you some pie.”

The waitress brought the check, and true to form, Dean not only paid for it, but left the lady a 50% tip. The card was just about ready to be a bust, anyways. Might as well tip someone nicely in Mr. Lars Ulrich’s name.

_~What Is and What Should Never Be: Aftermath~_

Saturday night, the djinn was dead (and Sam didn’t want to think about how close he’d come to losing his brother), and everything was a cause for celebration – or so Dean said, only hours after cracking and spilling his guts to Sam about his dream world. Sam got it – Dean needed to save face. And for Dean, nothing said ‘I’m fine’ like cheap booze at a sleazy bar with sleazier women.

Sam nursed his beer quietly, periodically scanning the bar. He rolled his eyes when he spotted his brother, in deep conversation with a redhead whose shirt barely even pretended to meet public decency standards. But hey, he’d cut Dean some slack – it wasn’t every day you had to choose between dying in a dream world and living in shitty reality. Sam reached for his cell phone and fired off a quick text to Dean.

- _Do I need to get a second room?-_

Dean glanced at his phone and gave Sam a thumbs-up without looking at him. Sam pretended not to notice that his brother’s eyes were still red-rimmed, and downed the rest of his drink. He toyed with the idea of ordering another, and what the hell, it wasn’t like he was going to church tomorrow or anything.

“Hey.” Sam glanced up at the woman who slid into the seat next to him. “Drinking alone? That’s no fun, is it?”

Sam raised an eyebrow at the obvious come-on. To be fair, she was awfully pretty – curvy, with dark eyes nearly as black as her hair. And hey, he could respect a woman who made it clear what she wanted without playing games. “I was here with my brother, but I think he bailed with a girl,” he said. There was no harm in flirting a little, he reasoned. Either he got some company and flirtatious conversation for a while, or he finally made use of the condoms that’d been burning a hole in his wallet for what seemed like years – win-win.

The woman chuckled. “My friends bailed on me too,” she said, her smile widening as her eyelids lowered slightly. “Buy a girl a drink?”

Sam laughed a little. “Yeah, sure,” he said, trying to catch the bartender’s eye. “I’m Sam,” he offered.

“Helena,” the woman said, her smile morphing into a full grin. “And my poison of choice is whiskey, neat,” she added.

Yep, her intentions were pretty clear. They barely bothered to finish their drinks before settling tabs and leaving, Helena leading Sam towards her sensible sedan. “Okay, before you get in the car, safety first,” she said. “I’m gonna take your picture and send it to my friends, okay? Just in case it turns out you’re a serial killer,” she said, an undercurrent of seriousness beneath her lighthearted tone.

Sam shrugged – he couldn’t fault a lady for being wary. “Sure,” he said, stepping under a streetlight.

Helena flipped open her cell phone, fiddled with it for a few seconds, then raised it to take a picture. Sam blinked rapidly at the bright flash.

“And, done,” Helena said. Sam nodded and walked around to the car, sliding into the passenger’s seat.

Soft country played from the radio, unsurprising in a town like this. “My place isn’t far,” Helena said. “And I’ve got protection.”

Sam laughed sheepishly and rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ve got my own,” he muttered, embarrassed. “Most… condoms aren’t big enough,” he added.

Helena glanced at him. “You know, I’ve heard that before, but you’re tall enough that I actually believe you,” she said, flashing a dazzlingly bright grin. “I’ll accept it, since you brought your own condoms. Most dudes are just trying to get out of wearing one.”

Sam snorted humorlessly at that. That had always sounded to him like a good way to get the clap, more than anything else.

She parked outside a tiny one-story house, and exited the car. Sam nearly tripped over the bottoms of his jeans as he hurried through the front door after her. “My roommate’s probably out, but we should still be quiet,” Helena murmured as she closed the door before rising onto her tiptoes and wrapping her arms around his neck. Sam bent to kiss her, his lips moving against hers for several minutes. His cock perked up, filling with interest, and Sam didn’t bother stopping himself from grinding lightly against her.

They separated, and Helena reached for his hand. “Bedroom,” she murmured, tugging him towards one of the closed doors.

Sam followed eagerly, closing the door behind him. Helena stripped off her shirt and bra, and Sam removed his shirt in response, shivering as his dick fully hardened at the sight of her naked breasts. He dropped his jeans and boxers as she wiggled out of her jeans and underwear, leaving them both naked. “Damn, you weren’t exaggerating,” Helena murmured, closing the distance and wrapping a hand around his shaft. “Definitely bigger than anyone I’ve had.” Sam wrapped his arms around her soft body, and she wrapped her spare arm around his back, squeezing.

Sam felt her still as she went rigid against him. He frowned and released his grip. “You okay?” he asked, concerned, reaching out to tilt her face towards him.

Helena took a step away. “Your back,” she whispered, her voice horrified. “What _happened?”_

Shit. Sam hadn’t even thought of how to explain away the scourging and the subsequent irritation that had left raised, knotted scars. “I had a bad childhood,” he said as an excuse, staring at his feet. _Sorry, Dad._ That lie was more believable than the truth, and the last thing he wanted was to get too real with a hookup. “I’ve got some scars from it.”

“I’ll say.” Helena swallowed hard. “You – uh…” She blinked, then shook her head. “Sorry, sorry,” she said after a moment. “That was really insensitive of me. Do you still want to do this?”

“Yes!” Sam blurted out. “I mean, if you do,” he added. She nodded, and Sam smiled, his knees going weak with relief. He didn’t know what he’d have done if she’d pushed the issue, or something like that.

It wasn’t the greatest sex he’d ever had – she was too gentle, handling him as though he might break. It was considerate of her, but Sam generally preferred raw passion to tender healing sex. He’d have to think of an explanation for the scars that wouldn’t elicit so much pity, in the future.

He left her house early in the morning. Neither of them bothered to exchange numbers – even before she’d discovered his scars, he knew that neither of them had thought it would be anything more than a one-night stand. He supposed he might become a story to her friends – the pity-hookup with a mass of scars that still stood inches above the patches of unmarred skin.

Sam opened the door to the motel room and was greeted with the sight of his brother’s bare ass. “Dude!” he groaned, covering his eyes. “What the hell, Dean?”

“’S nothing you haven’t seen before,” Dean grumbled. Sam squeezed his eyes shut even as he heard the rustle of blankets. “You can open your eyes, ya prude, I’m covered,” Dean said, sounding amused.

Sam lowered his hand carefully, ready to cover his eyes if he saw too much skin. Dean smirked at him, bedsheets wrapped around his lower half. His bare chest was covered with hickeys. “Sorry ‘bout that. Winnie… well. Anyways. She didn’t want to leave ‘til I was just about passed out.” He waggled his eyebrows at Sam. “Guess I’m not the only one who got lucky last night, though! Gonna kiss and tell?” he teased. “Was she hot?”

Sam grimaced and closed the door, stalking over to the bed. “Yeah, she was hot, not that it’s any of your business,” he said. He flopped onto the bed with a sigh.

“Yeowch,” Dean commented lightly. “Lemme guess, she was into something weird? It’s always awkward when you find a chick who’s into something weird,” he said wisely. “I mean, unless you like the same kind of weird, then it’s –”

“She freaked out about my crucifixion scars,” Sam snapped, propping himself on his elbows and glaring at Dean. His brother paled, and his mouth snapped shut with a gratifying snap. “So yeah, Dean. She was hot. It was all set to be a great night. Then she freaked out about the scars, and I had to come up with a lie, so what did I go do but blame _Dad.”_ Sam scowled at the floor. “Yeah, blame the guy who never laid a hand on us, because it’s easier to believe than the truth. Now I’m realizing that next time I’ve got to come up with some kind of story that doesn’t end in _pity_ sex.”

Dean was quiet for a long moment. “I mean, you can always say you’re into some freaky BDSM stuff,” he offered.

Sam snorted. “That works until I hook up with someone who _is_ into freaky BDSM stuff,” he grumbled.

“Hey, you never know,” Dean said lightly. “I mean, I was skeptical this one time, but –”

“Dean, I swear to god, go into any more detail and you’ll be lucky if I don’t punch you in the dick until you can’t ever get laid again,” Sam threatened.

Dean raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Okay, touchy,” he said. “Hey, actually, I have a serious question about you and sex,” he said after a moment.

Sam groaned. “Dude, you know it’s creepy to ask about your brother’s sex life,” he pointed out.

“Gross, dude, I just mean the Catholic thing. Aren’t you supposed to do the whole monk thing until marriage?” Dean asked.

Sam stared at him. “I mean, monks are – you know what, never mind. Yeah, officially, that’s how it works, but most other Catholics I know ignore the abstinence rule,” he said. “Somehow, with everything else that’s going on, I don’t think God’s all up in anyone’s sex life. Half of the reasons to practice abstinence are outdated or mistranslations, anyways.” And he’d been a shit excuse for a Catholic recently, anyways – why bother abstaining from sex?

Dean nodded. “Okay,” he said seriously. “Good. I may be too old for the Catholic schoolgirls by now, but I’m glad I still have my chances with the hot nuns.”

Ah, of course, Dean was baiting him. “Sure,” he said agreeably. “I’m sure I could introduce you to some nuns. Sister Claire always did seem the adventurous type – seventy years old and still supervising youth hiking trips.”

Dean gagged exaggeratedly. “Why, Sammy? Why’d you have to put that image in my brain?” he complained.

Sam smirked. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Dean,” he said innocently. “You know what they say about older women.”

Dean groaned. “Thanks for ruining nun porn forever,” he grumbled.

Sam smirked. “You’re welcome,” he said. “I can also ruin playing-doctor, or sexy-lawyers, or –”

“No!” Dean said hastily. “Uncle, all right? You win this one!”

_~All Hell Breaks Loose~_

The last thing he remembered, he was in a pit-stop diner too small to even count as a hole-in-the-wall establishment. Sam kept his eyes closed and inhaled sharply. The scent of old, dried-up wood was offset by the dry, dusty air. Whatever he was lying on was hard and unforgiving.

Had he gotten drunk after picking up Dean’s pie? It felt like he was waking up after some sort of bender, in a strange place with no memory of how he got there, but his mind was strangely clear and his mouth lacked the cottony feeling that came the morning after getting blackout drunk. Sam grimaced and sat up, staring around the unfamiliar surroundings. Old buildings and dusty air, and no one in sight.

He started walking. He didn’t have any cell phone signal, and sitting on his ass wouldn’t give him any answers.

0o0o0o0o0

It couldn’t be a coincidence that he found Andy, and then Ava, and then two new people with psychic abilities. Sam had never had visions of Jake or Lily, and as far as he could tell, neither of them had seen visions of anyone else – neither of them had visions, per se. It seemed that their telekinetic abilities had manifested before their telepathic ones.

Sam shook his head and forced himself to focus on more important things – things such as figuring out where they were, who brought them here, and how to get out.

0o0o0o0o0

Ava had been missing for a while, as it turned out. For five months. The rest of them could pinpoint the date within a day or two, but Ava was a wild card.

So in a way, Sam wasn’t surprised to find Lily’s mysterious hanging corpse, or to find the salt lines they’d laid down destroyed, or to see Andy dead on the ground. The dream that the yellow-eyed demon had inflicted on him that night was more than just a mind-game. He really did have demon blood – they all did. (And maybe a part of him was determined to throw himself at the nearest Catholic church and bathe in holy water until a priest could be contacted to perform an exorcism.) Still, it didn’t change that his job was to protect humanity, and Ava…

She had been good, once. Sam trembled as he remembered her horrified screams, her gentle presence soothing him as he rode in the ambulance to the hospital. Her fiance’s fierce determination to protect her.

But no – she had given in to something evil.

Ava wiped the crocodile tears from her eyes. “I’ve been here a long time,” she said bitterly. “And not alone, either,” she added, offering an emotionless smile. “People just keep showing up. Children, like us.” She nodded, the corners of her mouth twisting up. “Batches of three or four at a time,” she added.

Sam swallowed hard. Four of them versus one of her, and Lily and Andy were both dead. “You killed them?” he asked quietly. “All of them?”

Ava nodded. “I’m the undefeated heavyweight champ,” she said wryly, smiling at him.

Sam hissed out a breath. How many people had she killed before he got there? “Oh, my God,” he whispered.

“Don’t think God has much to do with this, Sam,” Ava said, a mocking smile crossing her lips.

Sam swallowed hard. He remembered the civilian woman on the ambulance, choking back tears as she comforted him. The civilian fiancé who pledged himself to keeping her safe. “How could you?” he whispered, staring at her.

Ava stared at Sam bleakly, emotions flickering behind her eyes. “I had no choice,” she said, her voice wavering. “It was me, or them.” She shook her head. “After a while, it was easy.” Her smile dimmed somewhat. “You know,” she said conversationally, “you showing up here – I really, really regret saving you. Should’ve just left you to die on that cross.”

Sam flinched and took an involuntary step backwards. Ava raised an eyebrow at him. “Well, then again, maybe you won’t be that much of an obstacle,” she said, not moving from her spot. “I mean,” she added, “you were weak enough to get caught once, and I doubt you’re in fighting form after all that.” She shrugged. “Even if you were, I’ve stopped fighting who we are. Have you?”

“You mean – you mean, the whole demon blood thing,” Sam said. Something flickered at the edge of his vision, a figure outside the rundown house. Sam took a step sideways, trying to subtly encourage Ava to turn away from the entrance to the room.

“Yeah,” Ava said, grinning, her expression sincere this time. There was something dark behind her once innocent eyes, and a shudder ran down Sam’s spine at the sight of her. “You have no _idea_ what we can do, do you, Sam?” she taunted. “The learning curve is so fast, it’s just – _crazy._ The switches that just flip in your brain!” she said, gesturing wildly. “Ah, I can’t believe I started out just having dreams,” she said, shaking her head. “I can’t believe they freaked me out – if I knew what I’d be able to do, who I’d be able to be!” She chuckled. “And do you know what I can do now?”

Sam glanced at the broken salt line and then back at Ava. “Control demons,” he said flatly. The back of his neck prickled, and he forced himself not to turn around. The figure he’d seen outside was in the house, was watching them. _Please, let it be Jake,_ he prayed. _Don’t let it be a demon._

Ava grinned. “Ah, you _are_ quick on the draw,” she said, briefly inclining her head in a respectful nod. “But don’t worry – I’ll have them make it quick,” she added as she raised her hands to her temples. “It’ll still be better than crucifixion.”

The figure in the shadows was moving, coming up quietly behind Ava. Sam watched as Jake’s form came fully into view _(Thank God)_ behind Ava. “Sorry, Sam,” Ava said, oblivious to Jake’s presence, “but it’s over.”

Sam saw the moment Ava noticed Jake’s presence, only a split-second too late for her. Ava cried out as Jake grabbed her chin and shoulders and twisted her neck, hard. Ava barely had time for a choked cry before dropping to the ground, her head facing fully backwards.

The demon that had just barely begun seeping through the crack in the salt line fled as Ava’s control died with her.

Sam stared at Jake, who returned the expression with wide, horrified eyes.

“I.” Jake swallowed hard. “I’m guessing she wasn’t being completely upfront about how long she’s been here, huh?”

Sam nodded. “Yeah, uh, you could say that,” he said quietly, looking down at her corpse.

Jake shuddered minutely. “You two knew each other before,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

Sam hesitated for a long moment. “She saved my life,” he said finally. “She had a vision of me dying, and showed up to save my life. I was a total stranger to her.” He couldn’t take his eyes off her for more than a few seconds. Strange – all the horrible things he had seen in his life, and he was pretty sure that the sight of Ava with her head snapped around backwards was the one that disturbed him the most.

Jake nodded. “Yeah, well,” he said. “War makes good people do fucked up things.” He smiled, and it wasn’t happy. “Only took a couple months in Afghanistan before I realized that I could do things I didn’t think I was capable of, and not just this psychic stuff.”

Sam nodded – in a way, he could understand, too. It was only a few months ago that he’d given the order for Creedy to die. “Yeah,” he said.

Jake squared his shoulders and jerked his head towards the outside. “Let’s go,” he said quietly.

Sam followed him out, his stomach clenching somewhat. Jake’s body language was a bit too even, a bit too _military,_ for his liking. “I think we can make it out of here now,” he said, cutting passing Jake on the way down the steps. Alarm bells were ringing in his head, louder now.

Jake’s pace didn’t vary. “But, the Acheri demon –” he began.

“No, no, no, Ava was summoning it, controlling it,” Sam assured him. He was relatively sure the demon wouldn’t be coming back. Like the Daeva, Acheri didn’t follow the rules and predilections of regular demons. The thing probably hadn’t wanted to be here any more than Sam did.

He would love to blame the idea of the demon coming back for Jake’s too-tight, too-wary posture, but the man didn’t relax. “It shouldn’t come back now that she’s dead,” Sam said, every sense on high alert as he passed Jake. “We’ve gotta go,” he said, speeding up slightly.

“No.” A chill ran down Sam’s spine, and he slowed slightly. “Not ‘we,’ Sam,” Jake said, and the apology in his voice was enough for Sam to stop and turn to face his companion. Jake stared back at him, his face stony and composed.

Sam shifted slightly to better ground himself, wincing as his feet tingled and protested angrily. Now was _not_ the time for his nerves to decide to throw a pity party!

Jake’s eyes were eerily blank, the sort of forced emotionlessness that accompanied an impossibly hard decision. “Only one of us is getting out of here. I’m sorry,” Jake said flatly.

Sam swallowed hard, his heart pounding fast in his chest. “What?” he asked, not sure if he was looking for an actual explanation, or if he was just stalling. He felt strangely disconnected from his body, from his own intentions.

Distantly, he realized that this was why Jake had been so stiff and tense since killing Ava. He’d killed someone in cold blood, and he was about to do it again. Oh, God. Sam shifted back slightly, putting more of his weight on his heels – they’d been in better shape than the rest of his feet ever since he finished physical therapy, which generally compensated for the less-than-steady stance.

“I – I had a vision,” Jake said, sounding spooked. Right – his powers had all been telekinetic, before. “That – yellow-eyed demon, or whatever it was, he – he talked to me. He told me how it was.”

The demon had done the exact same thing to Sam. “No,” he argued, shaking his head. “No, Jake, listen – you, you can’t listen to him!”

“Sam!” Jake snapped, his blank mask slipping for a second. For that split second, Sam saw pain and anger and grief and regret warring in Jake’s eyes. “He’s not letting _us_ go. Only one.”

Yeah, the demon had said the same thing to Sam. Sam took a deep breath, and reminded himself that Jake was a civilian (how funny to use that term, as the man stood there in his army fatigues) and had no prior experience with demons.

Jake shook his head. “Now, we don’t play along, he’ll kill us both,” he said fervently. He took a deep breath, and made an attempt to school his face. It didn’t work “Now, I – I like you, man, I do. But do the math, here. What good’s it do for both of us to die?” he asked, a pleading note slipping into his voice. “The way you’re standing, I know you know I’m physically more likely to survive whatever he has planned. Now, I can get out of here. I can get close to the demon – I can _kill_ the bastard.”

Sam shook his head. “You come with me, we can kill him together!” he argued, searching Jake’s face for some sign, any sign, that he might back down.

Jake’s open, pleading expression flattened. “How do I know you won’t turn on me?” he asked coldly, suspicious.

Fuck, of course Jake would be a skeptic. “I won’t,” Sam promised, letting his arms fall slightly open at his sides, his empty palms turned towards Jake. It was a gesture of harmlessness, of good intentions. Nine times out of ten, that sort of body language worked – though Sam doubted it would on Jake. The man was too twitchy, and who could blame him, being dropped from a combat zone right into a demonic war?

It was still worth a shot.

Sure enough, though, Jake shook his head. “I don’t know that,” he said, meeting Sam’s eyes and holding his gaze.

Sam took a deep breath. An angry throb shot through his right foot, and he was forced to rock slightly forward to alleviate the pain. He couldn’t just stand there much longer. “Okay, look,” he said, showing Jake his empty hands before reaching for the knife in his waistband and disarming himself. He didn’t take his eyes off Jake even as he bent to put the weapon on the ground. Show of goodwill notwithstanding, he didn’t trust that Jake wouldn’t attack him as soon as he looked away.

Sam held his hands in front of his body as he stood back up. “Just come with me, Jake,” he pleaded. “Don’t do this. Don’t play into what it wants.” Playing into what it wanted had gotten Lily and Andy killed, had corrupted Ava.

Jake hesitated, then pulled a crowbar from his waistband. He held Sam’s gaze as he knelt down and lowered the instrument to the ground, laying it carefully in the dirt, his free hand held high over his head.

Jake rose, empty-handed, and Sam sucked in a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Okay,” he said. He relaxed slightly.

Jake shot forward without warning, almost too fast for Sam to see. A fist like steel caught him in the face, launching him into the air. He let out a guttural cry as he soared through the night, launched through a fence, and landed several yards away, his back slamming into the ground with punishing force. Yep, he’d be one giant bruise in the morning, if he lived that long. He choked, struggling to bring air into his deflated lungs. The crunch of footsteps spurred him onward, and Sam forced air into agonized lungs, weakly flailing his limbs as Jake stalked closer, closer, closer.

Jake paused before him, and Sam forced himself up onto his elbows, panting hard and staring his would-be killer in the face. Sweat streamed down his cheeks as he launched himself backward to mitigate Jake’s kick to his side. He threw up a leg to block, an arm to block, drawing on old sparring sessions for help. He managed to throw himself to his feet and curl into a defensive position that still allowed for counter-attacks. His feet trembled, and he could barely feel his stance, but adrenaline was more than enough to supplement the nerve damage, for now.

Then Jake hit him in the shoulder, and Sam _screamed,_ whipping around as tender nerves and new muscles tore. Jake kneed him in the barely-healed kidneys, and he fell to the ground with a cry, oh shit, oh shit, he was going to die.

Weirdly, he wanted last rites. Huh. And here he’d thought maybe he was over the Catholic thing.

Jake stood back, panting, and Sam was able to scramble to his feet. His feet were numb, his shoulders were screaming, and he knew damn well that he’d need to go back to physical therapy – but none of that mattered if he _died._ He panted as he faced Jake, turning to grab the debris from the fence and use it to block Jake, to base it in the soil and wrench him back, to knock him to the ground. Jake fell, and Sam raised a beam of broken fence, bringing it down hard on his head. Jake cried out as he went through the remainder of the fence to lay prone in the dirt.

Sam rose, reaching for the crowbar as he did. Jake opened his eyes as Sam was straightening, and Sam struck with his good arm, catching Jake in the chin and knocking him back into the dust. Good. Jake could make his way home _after_ Sam got out. Tempting as it was, he wouldn’t hit Jake again.

_“Sam!”_

The cry startled him, his brother’s voice off in the distance, yet close enough to matter. Sam fought back a laugh and made for the sparse trees. He stepped carefully, favoring each foot in turn and gripping his ravaged shoulder with his free hand, making his way towards the distant road. He was getting out of here. He’d find Dean, he would, and Dean would probably bitch about the need for more physical therapy, but that was _okay._

He walked towards the noise, and within a few seconds Dean and Bobby rounded the corner, their boots loud in the mud, an expression Sam had never before seen on Dean’s face. “Sam!” Dean cried, his shoulders slumping even as he walked forward, as he lowered his flashlight.

Sam gripped his ruined arm tightly. “Dean!” he managed, trying not to choke on the tears in his throat. Shit, now that he was out of immediate danger and could collapse into the car, he realized how badly he wanted to cry. Dean would give him shit, but it was worth it.

But then Dean froze, his voice warping with horror.

The first thing he noticed was how bright the world was. So bright, so clear, so much color, so much –

Pain. Sudden, consuming agony. He barely had the chance to look up at Dean’s stricken face before pain wiped his vision. The rest of his senses faded shortly thereafter.

Agony. Misery. Every twitch brought more agony, until, abruptly, there was nothing.

0o0o0o0o0

Nothing. In the nothingness, he thought he felt something. _This isn’t where souls go,_ he felt, but there were no words, and he spent an eternity translating the sensation. _You were reserved for a deal before it was made, so no heaven or hell right now._ The words meant something to him, once.

Words meant something. Wait for it. Wait for it.

He waited for eternity.

0o0o0o0o0

The first thing he was aware of was the sharp pain of emptiness in his lungs. Sam inhaled sharply, nearly screaming the influx of oxygen, his too-still heart starting back up and beating frantically as he sucked air into depleted lungs. Sam took a deep breath, another, another.

Something felt wrong. Like he was cheating the world by breathing.

“Go back to sleep,” the shadowy figure above him ordered. Sam would love to fight the command, but he almost instinctively gathered his wits and sank back to the motel rooms of the mortal world.

When he opened his eyes and sat up, he realized he was in just another shit motel room. But Dean would be here soon, to sort things out. He had to be. Because the room was too stuffy, and the dimensions were to small, and something was screaming at the back of his mind and he needed his brother.

0o0o0o0o0

“How long have you got?” Sam managed to ask when the deed was done. When Jake was gone, when the yellow-eyed demon was dead, when they could finally, _finally_ take a rest.

Dean didn’t bother to look him in the eye. “One year,” he said after a long pause. “Don’t,” he added as Sam opened his mouth. “It’s done.”

It’s not done. Sam was perfectly willing to trade his life for his brother’s soul, to do whatever it took. “Why?” he asked finally.

Dean raised his head, but he didn’t meet Sam’s eyes. “I lost you once, before,” he said quietly. “When those sickos tried to kill you. And I stayed alive, Sam, I kept it together, but I was barely holding on.” He chuckled humorlessly. “It was only a few days, but god, it felt like _years,_ and the only reason I kept moving was the thought that maybe, just maybe, they were wrong, and you were still out there somewhere. Then I heard you were alive, and I just – I can’t lose you, Sam. I can’t survive without you.”

The air was thick and heavy, too humid for May. Sam sucked in several breaths as he attempted to formulate his response to his brother. “And I can’t lose you,” Sam said, his voice tight. He trembled, his heart beating erratically as he stared at his damn idiot of a brother. “You ever think about that, Dean?” His voice came out louder than he expected.

Dean nodded. “I know it’ll be hard – but you’ll get through it, Sam,” he said evenly.

He couldn’t breathe. Fuck. Sam forced himself to suck in air, struggled to calm his furiously pounding heart. “You don’t get to make that decision,” he hissed. “You don’t – you –” Half-formed thoughts swirled around his mind each demanding priority. “I wish I’d died on that cross, then,” Sam spat angrily.

Dean sucked in a breath and drew back, his eyes widening. “What?” he demanded, his voice thin.

Sam’s temples throbbed. “You heard me,” he snapped. “If I’d died on that cross, you wouldn’t have had _proof_ that I was dead, and you’d have kept going.” He inhaled sharply. “It would’ve been hard, but you’d have gotten through it, _Dean,”_ he said, spitting his brother’s words back at him, wishing he could infuse them with all the venom he felt.

Dean’s face hardened. “Yeah, okay, Sam. You really want that? You’d’ve died miserably, and I’d’ve made it maybe a year before following you from drinking myself to death!”

“Yeah, and when you died, you wouldn’t be going to _Hell!”_ Sam shouted.

Hell. His brother was going to _Hell._ The reality of the situation hit him like a truck, and the anger immediately dissipated, leaving behind nothing but bone deep terror. “I can’t let you go to hell,” he said, his voice coming out weak. “I can’t. Not for me.”

Dean slumped forward. “Yeah, well, you’re gonna have to. There’s nothing that could ever make me regret doing this, so don’t even try.”

Sam shook his head, because it wasn’t _right._ He’d be alive _(alone)_ for maybe another 50 years, and that was if he stopped hunting – and even then, only if he didn’t die prematurely for some mundane civilian reason. Life was temporary. Hell was for eternity.

Nearly on instinct, Sam reached into his pocket for his rosary, only belatedly remembering that Kubrick had taken it from him all those months ago. He’d have to replace it. He squared his shoulders and looked Dean in the eyes. “I’m not just going to lie back and let you do this, Dean,” he said seriously. “Whatever it takes, I’m not going to let you go to Hell.”

_~Epilogue~_

Ruby scowled at Sam as he exited the church. “I don’t know why you dragged me over here,” she complained. Always the same complaints, ever since he’d started going to church again. Ever since Dean had come back from the dead. “I can’t go inside – and do you know how conspicuous it is to be a demon hanging around outside a church? It only takes one unusually perceptive human to start a panic.”

Sam laughed – and damn, he’d laughed so much in the past few weeks that he was pretty sure his throat was raw from it. “It’s an hour a week, Ruby,” he said.

“An hour a week that we could be using to take down Lilith,” Ruby argued as Sam opened the passenger’s side door of her stolen car. “It would be the perfect cover for getting away from Dean to do some actual work! Just claim you’re going, and then come work with me instead!”

Prior to Dean’s resurrection at the hands of a bona fide angel, it would have made a lot of sense. Technically, it still did make sense to use their time and energy to take down Lilith, and yet – “It was heaven that saved Dean, Ruby,” Sam said. “I can take one hour out of the week to show some appreciation.”

Ruby rolled her eyes. “Angels, heaven – they haven’t been there for you, Sam,” she said. “I have. I can help you take down Lilith – do you really want to bet on talking to some ‘god’ who hasn’t shown his face in, well, ever?”

Sam smiled at that, staring ahead as she started the car. “You know, Ruby,” he said, his eyes flicking to her and then back to the road, “I have faith that whichever path I take, God’s or yours, I’ll get there in the end.”

Maybe not in the way he expected, he could admit, but eventually, he’d make it out and make things right.


End file.
